


For You I'll Always Wait

by dhwty_writes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Gods, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, Journey to the Underworld, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mythology - Freeform, Poetry, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Trial Of The Grasses (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28214124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhwty_writes/pseuds/dhwty_writes
Summary: Jaskier took a shuddering breath. "I refuse. I refuse to spend the rest of my life wasting away at his bedside-"Yennefer's touch was too soft, her eyes too gentle when she said: "You don't have to stay. I'll keep him safe." As if he was a child. As if he was an idiot."Of course, I'd stay!" he howled. "He's my- my- my Geralt! Half my life I spent at his side. Without him there's... nothing left.""Jaskier-" she tried again."Please," he begged. "Please, you love him, too, do you not? This can't be what you want. There must be something- Anything-!"Geralt takes on a contract to investigate some spectral activity in a haunted ruin. As it happens, he disturbs the residence of a powerful being, that traps his soul in a nefarious netherworld. Jaskier, local bard with no sense of self preservation, does the obvious and follows him, trying to parse information from talking plants and braving unspeakable horrors in order to bargain for his witcher's soul. If only that were as easy as it sounded.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Triss Merigold, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss Merigold & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 70
Kudos: 169
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	1. Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faiataka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faiataka/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, everyone! This is my contribution for the [Witcher Secret Santa Event](https://thewitchersecretsanta.tumblr.com/) for [heyabooboo](https://heyabooboo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> My thanks also go to [contemplativepancakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/contemplativepancakes/pseuds/contemplativepancakes), who betaed this fic for me. Thank you for your patience while I was still writing this <3 You guys should also definitely go check out her work, I love it to pieces!
> 
> Anyways, I shouldn't bore you too much. Let me just say one last thing: I think this is the most well thought-out piece of fiction I have written in my entire life. I have weighed every words of this five times at least. I hope you guys like it.
> 
> Have fun reading!

It was a serene and sunny day when the witcher scaled the hill to the abandoned mansion. It shouldn't have been, by any rights; neither day nor sunshine quite set the scene for a monster hunter to come slay to his prey. Alas, Weather does what they want rather than what they should—most of the time they are too busy laughing at humans they catch by surprise, to notice another one of their storms escaping anyways— and neither of that is to set a picturesque scene for a murder to take place.

Well, not necessarily a murder; that might, admittedly, be a bit crass. An eviction, rather, though the witcher did know yet that was what he was about to do. He simply marched up there, convinced that he would do some light reconnaissance and then return to the bard he had left behind. He was so adamant in his conviction, even, that he simply couldn't imagine anything else.

Geralt of Rivia slid from his saddle and pat Roach on the side of her neck. "Good girl," he muttered as he tied her reins to the withered remains of a tree on a field of dried grass. 

He stepped back to retrieve his sword from her saddle and heard the telltale sign of a dried-up flower crushed beneath his boot. Geralt lifted it. It was a dandelion. He cursed internally. Were he a superstitious man, he might’ve thought it a bad sign. He wasn’t, though, so he _knew_ it to be a bad sign.

Nothing good ever came from places where not even weeds could stubbornly cling to life. It usually meant that nothing would stay alive—or dead— for very long either. He'd have to be fast. 'A quick look around and I can go back to Jaskier,' he promised himself, the only silver lining on the horizon of this shitty day. 

With a grunt he went to the road that led towards the ruin looming up above him, taking in every detail of his surroundings. The tree Roach was tied to seemed to have belonged to a grove, considering how systematically the husks of the trees were arranged. 'Like gnarled fingers trying to reach for the sky.'

Geralt huffed. Jaskier was rubbing off on him again. The collapsed stone wall lining it was another strong indicator that once there had been someone tending to the woods. 'A cemetery?' he wondered. It might be a strong start...

He stepped past the large erratic to his left to vault over the crumbling wall. He had barely taken two steps when a dark shadow fell over him. He looked up to see the sun inching closer and closer to the horizon. A shiver ran down Geralt's back. ‘So late already?’ He had barely set out an hour ago, he was sure of it. And yet— something moved to his right and his medallion vibrated. “Fuck,” he cursed. He didn’t like this at all. 

Still, he had come here for a reason, so he turned away from the deserted grove and headed to the ruin. It wasn’t a large ruin, by any means, barely three walls standing. The first floor was completely decayed, so he didn’t have to check that, at least. In less than an hour he’d be done. 

That didn’t alleviate the uneasy feeling in the slightest. With each step it seemed like the temperatures dropped further. By the time he reached the facade his breaths were visible in white clouds, mingling with the fog drifting up from the ground. The weather was changing entirely too fast for his liking.

Slowly, Geralt stepped over the threshold into the broken mansion. He kept his eyes on the fog the whole time. The tendrils were thicker now, larger than any snake he'd ever seen as they slithered across the rotten floor. 'I should turn around,' he thought. He knew he should turn around. Still, he kept moving further into the mist.

A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. His head snapped around. One of the wisps rose above the ground, twisting and twirling to a melody he couldn't hear. "The fuck," Geralt grunted and reached for his sword. 

He regretted taking the contract already. It was a fool's errand, and he had known it to be. But coin was scarce these days and he had to make do. Even if it meant investigating haunted ruins that made his medallion nearly jump off his chest.

The shrill sound of rusty door-hinges made him twirl around. He was met with an inscrutable wall of fog. "Shit." His sword was in his hand before he could even think about it. A gentle gust of wind swept through the ruin, as if the air itself around him heaved a breath of relief. 'I have to get out of here.'

He turned towards where he had entered and bolted; not quite running, but almost. He hit the wall face-first. "Fuck!" he cursed, holding his bleeding nose.

An all-too-familiar laugh rang through the silence. "Fuckin' idiot!"

"Lambert?" he groaned as he raised his hands to set his own nose. It hurt like a bitch.

"Who else, you bastard?" his arsehole brother answered.

"Where are you?" Geralt wanted to know, feeling blindly for his sword. 'Fuck.' Why had he dropped it? It had been stupid to drop it. He knew better than that. He was a witcher, for fuck’s sake.

"Right behind you!" Lambert laughed again. He was probably within a punchable distance.

Geralt found the grip of his sword and whirled around, coming face to face with... fog. Nothing but fog. "Lambert?" he asked, desperately. No answer. "Lambert!" He waved his hand, a futile attempt to disperse the mist, and squinted, as if that would do anything. Of course, it didn't.

There is something to be said about the eyesight of mortals, and that is that every single one of them possesses a truly despicable one. So, it shouldn't come as a surprise that when the witcher blinked and tried to focus his vision, he did not see anything he hadn't seen before; which was nothing at all.

A quiet groan rippled through the dark, and Geralt stumbled forward before he even knew what he was doing. "Eskel," he gasped desperately, trying to follow the ragged breathing. He’d know that sound everywhere, he had heard it far too often already. "Eskel, where are you, I'm coming," he promised, while the maddening mantra of 'I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't.' kept fluttering through his head. He knew exactly what he would find, Eskel with his face slashed open, bleeding and barely breathing. 'I can't do it again, I can't, I can't, I can't.'

" _No!_ " the high-pitched shriek made him halt in his stumbling, nearly doubling over. "Get out!"

"Yenna," he breathed. He vaguely realised that the world was spinning around him and fought the instinct to throw up.

"No, help!" she screamed again.

"Yennefer!" he shouted in response. "Where are you?"

A woeful giggle swept past him, one that might've belonged to a child or a giant or something else entirely.

"Did I not train you well?" a weak voice, that barely sounded like Vesemir, coughed. "Is your sword your only weapon?"

"N-no," he stammered and raised his trembling hand. He willed his fingers to bend; each movement was pure agony. After half an eternity his hand formed the sign of Aard and the fog dispersed.

Never in his life had he regretted anything more. "No-" he choked out weakly as his knees hit the blood-slick floor. "No!" He could barely comprehend what lay before him, only that they were dead dead dead, all of them, gone, dead, their blood soaking him to the bone.

"What happened?" he whispered, whimpered, wailed. There was an uncomfortable feeling coiling in his gut. It was something important, he knew. Something he should do. Somewhere he should go. Someone he still missed. But whatever it was, there was a thick fog clouding his mind that he could not see through. 

"You failed me," Yennefer answered, rising from her last resting-place. With each movement her broken bones popped back into place. But there was nothing to be done about her torn-up chest; nothing to be done about her empty eyes, picked clean by the crows long ago, full of accusations.

"And me," Eskel agreed, blood trickling from the gashes on his face. And his legs. And his arms. And his guts. There was not much to trickle left.

"And me," said Lambert's head where it lay inches from his torso. Two swords protruded from his body, one silver and one steel. They had stripped him naked save for the medallion around his neck, a snarling cat where there should have been a wolf.

"You failed all of us," Vesemir rasped, lying limp on his deathbed. After months of sickness and starvation, he could count every bone on his body. But it was the garrotte that had been his end.

"Who did this?" he gasped.

"You did," they answered in unison.

"Me?"

A shadow giggled and caressed his cheek. "Of course, you," a velvety voice answered. "It’s what you do. Butcher. Hunter. Priest. You brought war to my peace."

He groaned quietly, desperate to lean into the touch. When he did, he nearly toppled over. He caught himself inches from the ground. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. "Who are you?"

"Who am I? That answer's not yet due," the strange voice answered; wisps of fog danced, curled together, formed what might have been a body. "The real query is: who are _you_?"

"I-" He inhaled sharply as realisation hit him. "I'm- missing someone."

"Missing someone, are we?" The shadow giggled. " _Pray_ tell, who might that be?"

He did not want to answer. He didn't. Still, he said: "Where's- _Jaskier_!" Fear closed its icy fist around his heart. True fear, that was paralyzing, numbing, horrible. He wanted to do something, wanted to— he didn’t know. His hands were shaking too much. 

" _Geralt!_ " a bard’s piercing scream ripped through the eerie silence.

The sinister giggle rang again; a wisp of fog caressed his shoulder. Suddenly, there was light. So much light, it was overwhelming after the all-encompassing darkness of the fog. He screamed in pain, trying to avert his gaze, trying to flee— but he couldn’t. 

"There you are," a smile spread on what might’ve been the creature’s face as they bent down, their mouth dragging across the shell of his ear, " _Geralt._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you guys think? There will be six other parts to follow over the next week, so please bear with me a bit. Feel free to leave a comment or come over to chat with me on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if you liked it!
> 
> EDIT: Guys, I don't have words! The amazing moodboard you can see in the beginning was made by [PetrificusTotaluss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetrificusTotaluss/pseuds/PetrificusTotaluss) ([tumblr](https://petrificustotaluss.tumblr.com/)). I am completely blown away, please show her some love!


	2. Curses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier, panicked and unsure what else to do upon finding an unconscious Geralt, brought him to Yennefer's current residence. There, the sorceress has some bad news for him.

"How is he?" Jaskier leapt to his feet and rushed towards Yennefer, though the expression on her face was the only answer he needed.

She raised a finger to her lips as the door behind her shut with a quiet creak. As if Geralt was just sleeping in the next room and not- "He's alive," she answered with an air exhaustion he had never seen on her.

"That's- That's good." He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue as he nervously started fidgeting with the strap of his lute that was still uselessly slung over his shoulder. Hadn't he put it down? He could have sworn he'd put it down. "That's good, right?" he asked, suddenly unsure.

She closed her eyes and breathed heavily. "It is," she breathed. Was that a tremor to her voice? It couldn't be, surely. 

He frowned. "Is that all you've got to say?" fear made his voice sound shrill. "Please tell me that's not the only good news you've got, there has to be more, there-"

"Jaskier." Her violet eyes blinked open again. "I won't lie to you to make you feel better. It's bad."

"What- but there's something you can do, right? There has to be something you can do."

"Maybe," she conceded. "But for that I need you to tell me exactly what happened before-" She waved her hand at the situation at hand. "-this. In as much detail and little words as possible."

Jaskier wanted to scoff in offence and tell her what exactly he thought of posing such a request to a master raconteur such as he was. In any other situation he would have. But even as the fool he was, he was well aware of the severity of the situation.

"Right," he whispered and finally set his lute down. With trembling hands, he tried to work the clasps of the front compartment open. "Give me a moment, I've documented this quite thoroughly; my notes must be here somewhe- oh, bollocks."

His notebook had slipped out, scattering loose pages everywhere. "Oh, Yennefer, I'm so sorry, I'm such a mess, let me-"

He crouched down to gather them up again, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Jaskier," the sorceress implored and pushed him to sit down on the bench again, " _breathe_." She bent down to gather them up herself, her hands trembling just as much as his. "You're not much of a use if you lose your head."

"Right," he gasped. "Right." He closed his eyes and focused on breathing like Geralt had shown him. Slowly he felt the panic receding.

When he looked up again, he saw Yennefer offering him his notebook. "Try again," she ordered.

His hands trembled still, but he didn't drop his journal again when he began leafing through it. "There was a contract, a two-day ride from here," he began. "Spectral apparitions in an old ruin it seems. Nothing strange, as far as I can tell. Not until we started gathering information, at least. It seemed there were wildly different accounts; the more we asked, the more they differed.

"Some talked about a beast of nightmares stalking the abandoned keep, griffins and wyverns and trolls. I believe there was talk of basilisks, as well.

"Others told tales of virgin maidens to tend to their every need, and beautiful orchards, their branches so heavy with the sweetest fruits they grazed the ground with so much as the barest breeze. There was talk of powerful mages and mighty warriors defeating a thousand foes up there. The blind could see, the cripples walk; it was paradise on earth for them.

"And others still saw nothing but a ruin."

He flipped his page over and frowned. "Then there were the apparitions, of course. A deceased beau, a beloved mother, a pair of twins that had died in the cradle. A husband who had beaten his wife, as well; bandits, soldiers, the former alderman who had a preference for the young men of the village. There was no pattern to it. It was- strange."

Yennefer scoffed. "Why on earth didn't you turn around and got as far away as you could?" He shot her an incredulous look, and she nodded in understanding. "Right. Geralt."

He huffed the semblance of a laugh. "He prepared well," he continued. "I never saw him so thoroughly armed for a _scouting_ mission. I had offered to go ahead; so far as we could tell nobody had gotten _hurt_ , but-"

"But he would have none of it," she concluded correctly. "So, he went into the ruin, you followed him, stupid as you are, and found him in there?"

"Not quite," he disagreed. "Geralt was gone for nearly a day when I decided that I had waited long enough. I walked to the ruin, but I didn't even have a chance to scale the hill, because there he was; lying at the foot of it, unmoving and unconscious. Roach was next to him, grazing peacefully, her reins untethered. I heaved him onto her back and came as fast as I could."

The sorceress frowned and closed her eyes. After a few moments she said: "What was the last thing he said to you?"

"I-" Jaskier faltered. "I don't remember," he breathed.

"What do you mean, you don't remember?" Her eyes snapped open, violet pools of sparking anger. "You have to remember, come on, Jaskier, he doesn't talk that much."

He shook his head helplessly. "I'm sorry, Yennefer, I don't." He gulped his tears down, passing his trembling hand through his hair. "It was- it was something mundane, something he told me so many times before. 'Don't eat any berries' or something. 'Don't pee on an ant hill.'"

She glared at him for a moment and he felt himself cower under her stare. She turned away with a quiet: "Fuck."

"What?" He leapt up again. "What is it?"

"I don't know, that's what it is!" she snapped. "The only thing I do know is that whatever Geralt encountered in that ruin was no mere spirit."

"But he wasn't in the ruin, Yennefer, I just told you! He was at the foot of the hill, with not so much as a scratch, no sign of a fight around him. Just... out cold."

"I know, which makes me think whoever put that... curse on him wanted us to find him. Else there would've been nothing left at all."

"A curse," Jaskier repeated. "There's a curse."

Her fingers drummed out a furious rhythm on the wall. "There's something that appears to be a curse. There is no chaos, though, so it was no magical being."

He looked at her in pure unadulterated confusion.

With a heavy sigh she sat down beside him. "Geralt's body is sleeping," she began explaining after a very long time, "but it's... completely empty. His soul appears to have been sent somewhere else. A netherworld, if you will; between life and death."

"A netherworld?" he gasped. He had heard tales of such places when he was a child, but so he had of devils and winged horses, and Geralt had disproven those quickly enough. So, he had never paid them any heed. "What on _earth_ could send him there?"

"Nothing," Yennefer answered with a wry laugh. "Nothing I know of, at least. Not like this. Not against his will." She made another pause before continuing: "I think whatever he found there was... divine. It's a sliver of hope, at least; even the White Wolf shouldn't be able to kill a god. That means, he has only trespassed and after serving his penance, he'll likely be allowed to go again."

Jaskier took a while to process the words, but then his face lit up. "He will?" He leapt to his feet, barely containing the urge to weep of joy. "He'll return to us."

A pained expression crossed her face. "No, Jaskier," she murmured softly. "Gods don't think as we do. They cannot grasp the meaning of a year; it passes in less than a moment for them. They think in eternities, ages, millennia."

Jaskier slowly turned to her in horror. "A thousand years?" he whispered.

"Or five or ten or fifty," her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "No-one knows."

"But-" He frowned as the true meaning of the words slowly settled into his consciousness. "I'll be long dead by then..."

Yennefer averted her gaze.

"You- you _coward_!" he accused her. "How dare you think of giving up? How dare you suggest to leave him to his fate?"

"There's nothing to be done!" she retorted. "He's gone, and we don't even know where!"

He threw up his hands. "How many netherworlds can there be?"

"Just the one, but-"

"Just one?" he interrupted her. "So, you know where he is."

"I know enough to see that he is far beyond my reach." She scoffed and shook her head. "Go home, Jaskier. There's nothing here for you."

He couldn't help but gape at her. "No," he croaked weakly. "Geralt's here. I- I can't." He took a shuddering breath. "I refuse. I refuse to spend the rest of my life wasting away at his bedside-"

Her touch was too soft, her eyes too gentle when she said: "You don't have to stay. I'll keep him safe." As if he was a child. As if he was an idiot.

"Of course, I'd stay!" he howled. "He's my- my- my _Geralt_! Half my life I spent at his side. Without him there's... nothing left."

"Jaskier-" she tried again.

"Please," he begged. "Please, you love him, too, do you not? This can't be what you want. There must be something- Anything-!"

Her eyes hardened. "There might be," she whispered. "But I do not know enough of the netherworld to know for sure." Abruptly, she stood. "Give me a week." With that a portal opened behind her and swallowed her whole.

Jaskier didn't know how long he just sat there, staring at the place where she had vanished. "Fuck," he whispered after what felt like an eternity. And finally, he let the tears flow freely.

* * *

It was exactly as Yennefer said; a week went by with just the two of them. Jaskier barely left his witcher's side; only when he feared he might succumb to hunger or thirst he took his eyes off him to run down to the kitchen that was mercifully well-stocked. He supposed he had passed out from exhaustion a few times as well, though he wasn't quite so sure about that.

He was nibbling on a bit of stale bread when the medallion on Geralt's chest started humming and a portal opened on his other side. He barely recognised the woman who stepped through; with her hair in disarray and the dark rings under her eyes, Yennefer looked just as horrible as he felt.

"Jaskier," she croaked, her throat raw from days of not speaking, or speaking too much, who was he to say. The sorceress stumbled, but before he could even get to his feet, another woman stepped through and caught her by the arm.

She was a mage as well, he guessed; she was just as otherworldly beautiful as Yennefer with thick auburn curls and unsettling dark glinting eyes. “Bard,” she greeted him.

"Umm...," he said in lack of a better answer. “Do we… know each other?”

“I am Triss Merigold,” Triss Merigold answered as she guided Yennefer to sit down. “I know _of_ you. I met Geralt quite some time ago.”

“Ah.” That name rang a bell, although he didn’t quite know what to make of that statement. What did that even mean, ‘I know of you’? Had Geralt talked about him? Yennefer maybe? Both options sounded equally absurd. “And, umm, forgive me for asking, but you are here because…? Not that I am ungrateful, mind you, but-”

“She’s my friend,” Yennefer interrupted him sharply. 

“And a healer,” Triss added with a kinder voice. “I am fairly familiar with…” She waved her hand vaguely in Geralt’s direction. “...similar situations.”

Yennefer snorted. “Overstatement of the century,” she muttered. 

“Yenna.”

“Triss.”

Triss sighed and shook her head. “I’ll go… make tea.” With that she strode over to the door and disappeared downstairs, leaving Jaskier to glance awkwardly between where she had just vanished and the crumpled pile of sorceress next to Geralt’s bed. 

“Umm,” he spluttered clumsily, “are you alright?”

She barked a laugh, barely looking up from her fingernails. “Do I look alright to you?”

“No,” he blurted before his survival instinct had a chance to kick in, “you look a bloody mess.

"I guess that’s fairly accurate," she answered with a wavering voice. Was that a sob he hea- oh, yeah, that was definitely a sob, for now wet tears glistened on her cheeks.

‘Fuck.’ Yennefer of Vengerberg was crying. Jaskier was entirely unsure how to react to that impossibility. Yennefer of Vengerberg didn’t cry. On principle. She was the most terrifying and powerful person he knew, and that included several witchers, a Child of Elder Blood and Queen Calanthe herself! He was in no way equipped to deal with her crying of all things. Not on top of all that… _Geralt_ stuff. Besides, that was _his_ thing, not hers.

But _shit_ , she didn’t stop. ‘I have to do something,’ he decided. There were few things as shitty as crying on your own. He spoke from—rather recent—experience. He took a first tentative step into her direction. She barely dignified that with raising her gaze. Only when he was less than an arm’s length away did she look up. “What are you—?”

“I’m going to hug you now,” he warned her and without further ado he pulled her against his chest. Yennefer stiffened and— ‘This is it,’ he thought, ‘this is how I die.’ 

To his surprise, nothing happened. Well, nothing bad at least. Instead of transforming him into a toad or reducing him to a heap of ash or something, she relaxed against him. She even raised her hands to cling to his doublet. 

Violent sobs still shook her as he gently stroked her hair and babbled some nonsense. He was good at that. Babbling nonsense. After a while the sobs subsided and she loosened the death grip on his torso.

Only after a minute of controlled breathing he allowed her to pull away, but not before giving her one last tight squeeze and saying: “Don’t lose your head, Yennefer. _Breathe_.” 

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she wiped at the string of snot connecting her nose and his shoulder.

“Don’t be,” he answered as reassuringly as he could. Which wasn’t a whole lot, to be fair. “We all have bad days.”

“Your doublet—” she protested weakly, but he just waved his hand.

“Believe me, it’s seen worse than a bit of snot and tears.” 

“Do I even want to know?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Probably not.” To his relief, she chortled as well.

“Well, it’s certainly been a week.” They both whipped around to Triss Merigold who was standing in the door with a tray of tea and biscuits. 

“Triss,” Yennefer sighed. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.” She set the tray down and thrust tea cups into their hands. “Don’t be embarrassed, Yenna, I’ve seen you in worse states.”

She made an undignified noise and Triss laughed. “Oh, the bard’s the problem, then? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Feel free to keep up your play at enmity.”

“Excuse me?” Jaskier gasped. “There’s no ‘play’ at anything going on here. I despise Yennefer just as much as she does me-”

“Do you really think _now_ is the time for such nonsensical theatrics?” Triss asked with raised eyebrows and it was enough to shut him up. No, he supposed it wasn’t. 

That, however, plunged the three of them into an awkward silence. Not because they had nothing to talk about, of course. It was just that there appeared to be no incentive of the two sorceresses to start the conversation, and while he certainly had a lot of questions, asking them seemed awfully rude, considering the state of exhaustion Yennefer was in. 

In the end, the burn of the tea did nothing to alleviate the burn of the questions on his tongue. “You mentioned similar situations?” he blurted out as soon as he had drained his cup.

Triss winced. “Well. Yes. Similar. Not quite the same. I’m a healer, after all.”

“I fear I don’t understand.”

“Coram Agh Tera,” Yennefer answered darkly. 

Jaskier frowned. “What has the god of fate to do with all of this?”

“God of fate, death, and destiny,” she began listing, “who is also known for his powerful curses.”

“And nightmares,” Triss added. “The only deity known to meddle with mortal affairs to this blasphemous degree.”

Jaskier snorted. “A blasphemous god?” he asked doubtfully. “Really?”

The two sorceresses regarded him with equally terrifying glares. “Shut up, bard,” Yennefer hissed and he immediately raised his hands innocently.

“I’m just saying, I’m sure there could be a better expre-- Yeah, shutting up. You were talking about Coram Agh Tera,” he prompted. 

“I was,” Triss agreed. “Theirs is the netherworld of those neither dead nor alive." 

“And Geralt got trapped there? How?”

They exchanged a wary glance. “We don’t know,” Yennefer said finally. “Our best guess is that Geralt disturbed Coram Agh Tera’s residence in those ruins. And now they have retreated and taken Geralt with them.”

"So Geralt is trapped in there until they take up residence somewhere else?" They really had to give him a bit more to work with if they wanted him to connect the dots.

"No, Jaskier,” Triss answered almost patiently. “Have you ever- When someone is badly injured, they tend to be unconscious for a long time, yes? Until their body finally withers and they die. Or they wake up with their mind torn to shreds. Those are the denizens of the netherworld. Though there are no known cases of a soul just vanishing completely. Our best guess is that he is staying with them there and likely, that’s where he’ll stay until they inevitably grow bored of him."

“I see.” He fiddled nervously with his teacup. “Well. That makes a lot of things easier, I suppose. I really would have hated dying to go look for him.”

Triss choked on her tea and stared at him in bewilderment as Yennefer made vague ‘I told you so’-gesture. “You can’t be serious,” the healer scoffed. “Jaskier, you could die; we’re not sending you there.”

“I’m well aware of that,” he replied, as calm as possible. “And I am rather relieved for the modality in this statement.” He looked back and forth between them. “Or do you have a better plan?”

“I will go,” Yennefer volunteered. “It’s why Triss came with me.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ stupid,” Jaskier scoffed. He didn’t wait for the outrage that would surely follow and continued: “Look, I recognise that both of you are very… powerful and downright terrifying women, however, I do not see how that will help you over there. I might not be as learned in the supernatural as you are, but I do know how to open a book. Your nice little library here, Yennefer, is really adamant about the point that there is no magic in a netherworld.”

“There isn’t,” Triss agreed.

“Forgive my bluntness, but in that case both of you are rather useless. You are used to getting what you want. And if you don’t you’re used to taking it. I, on the other hand, am well-versed in the art of talking people into parting with all kinds of things they do not want to part with.”

“People, yes,” Yennefer hissed. “What on earth makes you think you could win over a god?”

“Nothing,” he answered nonchalantly. “What on earth makes you think you’d do a better job?”

“Listen, bard,” Triss chimed in, “this is madness. Did you miss the ‘mind torn to shreds’-part?”

“My hearing is impeccable, thank you very much.” He set down his teacup with a lot more force than strictly necessary. “You might have heard of me, Triss Merigold, but clearly not enough. Else you’d know that I’m as stupid as a turd and as stubborn as a mule with no sense of self-preservation. I have trailed after Geralt since I was eighteen years old. If there is any way for me to follow him into this nefarious netherworld, I will find it.”

“If we don’t agree, he’ll just find the next best brute to pummel him into the netherworld,” Yennefer said with a heavy sigh. 

“That is completely correct. In our shared interest, I suppose it is much preferable for you to do your magick-y stuff and supervise my stay. You can do that, right? Protect my body while my soul’s away. For a while at least.”

“We can induce that dream,” Triss admitted reluctantly. “But we won’t be able to tell if anything goes wrong. We might not be quick enough to pull you back.”

Jaskier nodded. If he was quite honest, this was already so much more than he had expected. "One month. That's all I ask. Pull me back once the time is up."

Yennefer gave a curt nod; evidently, she had expected something of that sort. After a moment, Triss spoke up as well: "Alright," she whispered. "Alright, you crazy son of a whore, we'll do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 done already! Feel free to leave a comment or come over to chat with me on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if you liked it!


	3. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier enters the netherworld in his search for Geralt's soul. He has been prepared for a lot of things, mostly monsters straight out of nightmares. Talking birds and flowers? Not so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my probably favourite chapter of the whole fic. Have fun reading, guys!

Jaskier sat on the soft bed, slowly unbuttoning his doublet as he tried to ignore the warnings his brain shouted at him. He really couldn’t use any second thoughts right now. 

“ _ Get comfortable, _ ” Triss had said before closing the door behind him and he really was trying. It wasn’t that he had real doubts about what he was about to do. In fact, he had rarely been so sure about anything in his entire life. 

Still, Jaskier knew that it was insane. How could he not, despite his earlier statement he wasn’t stupid. He had gone to Oxenfurt, after all, and quite successfully so if he did say so himself. And endangering your life by entering a netherworld almost no-one ever returned from for your best friend who you were secretly in lo- well, that was entirely besides the point. The point was, that what he was about to do was the height of stupidity, and that he was well aware of it.

Not that he’d change his mind. He was, after all, stubborn as a mule with no sense of self preservation whatsoever. 

He folded up his doublet and deposited it on the chair Yennefer had put next to the bed. He took his time with his boots as well, unlacing them almost all the way before neatly placing them under the chair. 

Jaskier turned back to the bed and couldn’t help but stare at it. “Alright,” he muttered. And then again, because he hadn’t convinced himself yet: “Alright.” He heaved a heavy breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet and shaking out his arms as he did before his performances. In a way, the dread that filled him was quite similar. He supposed. 

He kept staring at the bed. It was a nice bed, as far as beds went. Large. Soft, cream-coloured sheets. The kind of bed he’d like to share with a lover. ‘A nice deathbed, as well,’ he caught himself thinking. He really should get on it. Somehow, he couldn’t. “Fuck.” 

“Alright, bard?” Yennefer’s voice sounded from the door. 

“Yeah. This is weird.” How did one lie down in the bed where one might die? He had never thought he might actually be able to choose. If he was quite honest, he’d always supposed that he’d die all on his own someday, bleeding out in a ditch. Or in Geralt’s arms, confessing his eternal love with his last breath, if he was feeling especially romantic and melancholic. But never wrapped in clean, linen sheets without so much as a scratch on him.

She guffawed. “Weird. And you call yourself a poet?”

“Hm.”

Her boot heels clacked loudly on the parquet as she drew closer. “What are you thinking about?”

“Do you-” He laughed nervously. “Do you really want to know?”

“Normally not.” Well. At least she was being honest. “But since this might be our last conversation, I’ll go with yes.”

“I owe you an eternal debt of gratitude,” he joked. To his relief, she chuckled at least. “You see, it’s really quite stupid.”

“It has to be.” She came to a halt next to him and crossed her arms. “Coming from you.”

“Yes, yes, mock me all you want. The thing is, I don’t know if I should get  _ on _ the bed or  _ in _ the bed.”

She blinked dumbfounded. “ _ That’s _ your biggest concern?”

“Momentarily, yes.” And that only because he didn’t allow himself to think about anything else. 

“You know, you should probably have very different second thoughts.” He didn’t dignify that with an answer. She sighed. “You  _ also _ know you don’t have-”

"Don't," he interrupted her with a pained grimace, "make me change my mind."

"Jaskier-"

"No, Yennefer.” He turned around to face her. “I want to do this. I want to bring him back. At least I have to try."

They just stood there, staring at each other for a long time. Jaskier was not going to lose that battle. "Go lie on the bed,” she gave in. “It’ll feel less awkward.”

It was ridiculous how easy it was all of a sudden to sit down and scoot to the middle of the bed, lying down on the soft cushions. Once he got settled, she was still standing there at the foot of the bed, looming over him. “You know what?” he began. “This is  _ very _ awkward. Reminds me of-”

“Rinde, I know,” she interrupted him. Her face was dark and clouded, her features unreadable. After a few moments she said: “Promise me you’ll come back.”

“Yennefer-”

“Don’t you  _ Yennefer _ me, bard. I dealt with Geralt almost losing you once. Don’t make me console him when you’re actually dead.”

He wanted to tell her how stupid that was. That Geralt wouldn’t be coming back if he didn’t come back as well. Else what was the point of any of this? But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say that. “I’ll come back,” he said instead.

She looked as if she wanted to say something else, but in that moment Triss called from the hallway: “Are you done, yet?”

“Yes,” Yennefer decreed and swept out of the room.

“Alright, then,” Triss said and closed the door behind her. “Let’s get this over with.” She sounded almost bored. “As your primary healer I am obligated to tell you that this is not only dangerous but downright lethal. And the absolutely most idiotic thing I have ever seen someone do and I have been a healer longer than you have been alive. If you die, you are not allowed to haunt me; I reject any responsibility for this. Got it?”

He gulped. “Got it.”

“Good. So, give it to me one last time. I make you fall asleep. Then what?”

"I will wake in the netherworld, where I will have to confront unspeakable horrors. I will brave the trials and tribulations that are necessary to reach Coram Agh Tera. On my search for Geralt I will speak to no-one, I won't utter my name, nor that of any other mortal."

"And when you have found him?"

He hesitated. They hadn't actually talked about that point. Finding Geralt in an endlessly large world of nightmares seemed impossible enough. He put on a brave smile which he knew wouldn't fool Triss. "Why, then I'll work my bardic charm to get whatever atrocious entity that's holding him captive to release him." He pulled off both his boots and went to lie down on the bed.

"Good enough," Triss muttered and stepped closer. "Close your eyes, Jaskier, and think of something sweet."

He did as he was told, slowly feeling his consciousness drift away as she began weaving her spell. 

Weirdly, it was Yennefer’s voice he heard next: "Good luck, bard. Bring him back to us." Hadn’t she left? Hadn’t she-? Hadn’t-

In the sluggish mass of his mind, he registered how strange that was. He wanted to ask who 'us' were. If he might be included. But he didn't dare. He wanted to answer something about returning with Geralt or not at all. But he was so tired.

"Sweet dreams," a voice from far away breathed.

Usually, when falling asleep, there is a certain amount of time that passes before people start dreaming. It could be a matter of hours or seconds; not that they are aware, of course. For them, that moment lasts but the fraction of a heartbeat, for they have no recollection of their slumber before or after their dreams. Most of them do not even remember those.

Once the sorceresses began weaving their spell, however, Jaskier saw that moment stretch out before him. It was an easy thing for him to, without so much as moving a single muscle, take a step. And another one. And then, let himself drift into that dark realm of uncertainty.

And so, he did.

In his, admittedly still rather short life, Jaskier had woken in all kinds of peculiar places. The beds of strangers most frequently, but also on tavern counters, beneath stages he couldn't remember playing on, covered with monster guts, covered with bandages, and, on one very memorable occasion, in a witcher's arms.

But this? This certainly and by far was the weirdest one of them all. 'The sky is the wrong colour,' was the first thing he noticed once he woke up. Instead of the soft blue he was used to, it was glaringly orange, as if eternally stuck in sunset. Only lacking the sun.

In all fairness, he wasn't quite sure if his current condition could be called 'awake'. Oh, well; he'd have to make do. How  _ was _ a mortal supposed to describe a realm that defied both bounds of rationality and reality at once; a realm of gods that was never supposed to be graced by them, neither in this life nor the next?

The answer to that, of course, is as simple as it is obvious: they aren't. They aren't supposed to be there, they aren't supposed to understand it and mortals most certainly aren't supposed to tell tales of the netherworld.

Yet, one of them had entered it and he was currently struggling not to grin like an idiot as he took in his strange surroundings. Bards are a very strange subset of people, with more imagination than could be healthy for mortals. Weirdness doesn’t—mustn’t!—deter them, for they are weird themselves. One could call in an occupational requirement. And of all the strange bards in this world, this one’s certainly among the stranger ones. 

A quick glance around revealed that the sky wasn't the only thing with an unusual colour. In fact, everything around him seemed slightly off. The trees were purple, the mountains in the distance blue, and the clouds gathering above them black. Not the kind of black that clouds tended to be in his world as well, but pure, all-consuming, nothingness. It made goosebumps rise on his arms. The grass with its pink tint under his bare feet set him on edge, as well.

He had never quite fit in: always too loud, always too vibrant, always too different. But a world like this, where he was almost mundane in comparison? Why, Jaskier was having a field day. 'Focus, Jaskier,' he kept telling himself. He had a mission, after all. 'Look for clues.'

But him standing with nothing but his lutecase on a pink field seemed to be the only thing that stood out among all the oddities. 'Oh,' he realised belatedly, 'I'm naked.' A strange feeling crept up on him, a feeling that he should feel embarrassed about it. But then again, there was no-one around. Besides, this wasn't real anyways.

'Well, nothing to be done about that,' he decided and re-adjusted his lutestrap as he weighed his options. There was the periwinkle forest to his left, or the cerulean mountains to his right, with the fuchsia expanse dividing the two. He did not look back.

He was currently debating whether or not he should flip a coin while wondering where he might acquire one given his pocket-less state of undress, let alone one with three sides, when his thoughts were interrupted by the cheerful melody of a lark.

Jaskier craned his neck to search for it among the purple foliage. It wasn't exactly difficult to find, one of the two things he was rather glad for. The other being that it looked perfectly normal.

It opened its beak again and Jaskier leaned forward, to hear the sweet sound once more. "What’re you starin’ at?" the bird asked with a gruff voice that rather reminded him of one grumpy witcher he was searching for.

Jaskier stared at it. "Uhmm."

"Ughh," the bird said and flapped its wings. "Humans. What d’you want?"

"I- uhm- I might be looking for someone." Fuck, he wasn't supposed to talk to anything. Barely a few minutes in and he had messed up already. Well, then he might as well get real information: "There wouldn't happen to be any gods around, would there?"

"Gods?" the lark with the disturbingly deep voice answered. "Nahh, never seen one in my life. There's Wade, but they're chill."

"Wade?" he repeated.

"Yeah. Crazy fucker. Imagines all kinds of things. It's where the good stuff's at."

Jaskier decided to ignore that impossibility pointedly. Something told him that it wouldn’t be the strangest thing this world had in store for him. "And how might one find their way to them? You wouldn't know, would you?"

"Of course, I do,” it scoffed. “You fly. Obviously."

"Obviously," Jaskier echoed stupidly.

"Are you some kind of idiot?" the lark wanted to know and preened his feathers. "It's easy.

_ Up is down and left is right, _

_ Do not lose your goal from sight. _

_ To go back, you must progress, _

_ For the fearless, no success. _ " It shook out its wings. "Got it?"

"Umm," was all he managed.

The bird rolled its eyes. Could birds roll their eyes? Well, this one did. "Weirdo," it decreed and took wing.

Jaskier couldn't help but keep staring at the branch from where the lark had vanished. "What," he murmured, "the  _ fuck _ ." That might rank among the top five weirdest conversations of his entire life. Maybe even top three. Not as strange as running into the higher vampire, dryad and halfling he’d had a foursome with before sneaking out the next morning, and then explaining the whole situation to Geralt after he had rescued him from their wrath (-ish. Wrath-ish. Yes, he might have been shackled to the bed, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t been enjoying himself), of course, but that was hard to beat. 

Anyways, what he was trying to say was that he had a lot of experience with strange encounters, and that he was thankful for it. That way it didn't take all too long for him to continue with his trek, muttering to himself about the strange poem the lark had given him.

Not that he was very successful. He had reached the ‘singing to himself’-stage of ‘I’m trying to figure out some bullshit’ and everyone knew that came right before a nervous breakdown. Well. Nothing to be done about that. ‘Just like the good old days in Oxenfurt,’ he mused as he sing-songed: “This doesn’t make any fucking se-ense. Not one tiny bit, but destiny loves fucking me ove-er.”

"You're not like the others,” an excited voice interrupted his masterful performance. 

"Excuse me?" he squeaked and glanced around in search of the speaker. No birds far and wide.

"Down here," the frail voice sounded again from his right. Were they imitating his melody from earlier? Rude. 

"Uhh," Jaskier stammered and crouched down to get a better look. But no matter how he strained his eyes, there was nothing that would betray any movement between the blades of pink grass and flowers that dotted the field. He bent down even further in hopes of getting a better look. "Um, I'm sorry, but- are you maybe rather small? Gods, is this insensitive? I swear, I don't want to be, this world is just very different than my own and—"

"Not like the others at all," the voice said directly next to his ear.

Maybe he should have been embarrassed over the fact that he fell flat onto his bum or the shrill squeal that escaped him while doing so. In any other situation he maybe would have. In this situation Jaskier decided he didn't care. He had more important matters to attend to. Like dealing with the fact that he was talking to a buttercup, for example.

"I'm sorry," the flower said, swaying gently in the non-existent breeze, "did I startle you?"

"Yes!" he shouted. The buttercup recoiled and he regretted it immediately. It was probably his greatest feat of willpower yet, that he collected himself and answered as calmly as possible: "I'm sorry as well. Flowers do not tend to talk in my world."

"They don't?" It leant to the side as if tilting its head. Blossom. Whatever. "Interesting. None of the others ever told me that. Maybe I could imagine something else."

"Just- one second," Jaskier muttered, holding his hands up to stop the flower from talking. He needed at least a minimal amount of time to process this craziness. A thousand questions burned on the tip of his tongue, each spawning a thousand more. Well, first things first: "Why do you talk?"

"I don't know." It shrugged. "Why do you?"

"Fair point," he mumbled. He hadn’t considered that. On to the second question: "What others?"

"People," it explained dreamily, "tall like you, with those things on their roots so they can move around. But they're very different usually. No conversationalists at all."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah, I've got my fair share of those in my life. It's infuriating, isn't it? I- oh, fuck. Are there a lot of people here?"

"Hmmm, maybe? Why?"

"I am looking for someone. He's a man like me. Tall. Built. White hair on his head and the worst conversationalist you can imagine-"

"That's a rock," it interrupted him.

"Uh-" He decided that the best bet was to ignore that statement. Not that it was necessarily untrue. Talking to Geralt  _ could _ have certain similarities with conversations with a brick wall. "You didn't see him, did you?"

"I can't see."

"Oh." Shit, he should have thought of that. "Of course not." It was a flower, how was it supposed to see? It had no fucking eyes. "I, um," slowly, he got to his feet, "I should go."

"Where are you going?" the buttercup asked him curiously.

He winced. "See, that's a bit tricky. I don't really know, yet. I am looking for this man and apparently there is someone named Wade around here who might help me, and— it's just— it's really complicated, alright? I'm just wandering about until I find something."

It nodded understandingly. "I don't know any Wade. But I know a poem about wandering. Would you like to hear it?"

'Anything but that,' he thought but he had no chance to say it, for the buttercup was already reciting: " _ The knight is weak who joins the fray. _

_ A wand’rer in their place will stay. _

_ And when they’re gone the fools remain, _

_ A garden grows with no sustain. _ "

"That's, um, that's beautiful," he answered. 'Not that I understand a fucking word of it,' he thought.

Still, it seemed like the right answer for the buttercup beamed. "Thank you! It's my favourite. Not that I know any other, but-"

"Look," he interrupted it, slightly annoyed, "it's getting rather late and I should be on my way. Or I think it is, hard to say with this weird light. Where's the sun, by the way?"

"Oh, we haven't got one," the buttercup answered casually as if it was no big fucking deal.

"Right," he drawled and made a point of backing up quickly. "I'm going now. Bye!" With that he bolted. He had wasted enough time already and he obviously wasn't getting any information out of it. Nothing useful at least.

"Alright," he whispered to himself, as he kept heading to the horizon that stubbornly refused to come closer. "Birds and flowers talk here. No biggie." He had been prepared to deal with a lot of things. Nightmares. Monsters. But talking animals? Pink grass? The longer he stayed in this weird place, the less it seemed like a nightmarish hellscape and more like one of his worse trips during his Oxenfurt days. Suddenly, he understood why people went mad here.

Jaskier kept walking. And walking. And walking. He had no idea where he was going, if he was honest, and he wasn't confident he'd figure it out in the near future either. His youthful hate of poetry was in the process of returning with renewed vigour. 'I wonder why.'

This was  _ exactly  _ what he had always hated about rhetoric in Oxenfurt: trying to discern a hidden meaning that probably wasn't even there. Only that this time there  _ had _ to be one. And he  _ had _ to find it. It was his only chance of finding Geralt anytime soon. Or ever.

And while he normally prided himself on being able to bullshit his way out of these situations, he had a suspicion that that wouldn’t help in this case. 

He had already gone over the formal aspects more times than he could count; that was easy enough. Two quatrains with rhyming couplets. The first had been a trochaic tetrameter, the second an iambic one. And what did that tell him?  _ Fuck all _ , that's what. ‘Just about as much as Oxenfurt taught me.’

Eventually, he had come to the conclusion that the two poems were not two poems at all, but two stanzas from the same one. No, he couldn't explain it either. Maybe because the last line of the first stanza had the word fearless in it, and the second stanza started with knights- Look, he knew he was grasping at straws here. What else was he supposed to do?

The thing was, he was also rather sure he was slowly running out of time. That idea—as ludicrous as it was—had come to him what felt like  _ days  _ ago and he was still walking. The horizon was still moving far and farther away with every step he took. He was exhausted. But no matter how often he gave his body the command to rest, it still kept on walking. He hadn't met anyone else. No strange flowers anymore. No rude birds. Certainly, no people. And definitely no Geralt. He wanted to weep.

Jaskier stopped in his tracks. "Fuck," he cursed quietly. Then, again, louder: "Fuck!" This was getting him nowhere. He had to try and ask someone for help. To decode the secret message, maybe. Or, if he was right and this was indeed one poem, perhaps even acquire the rest of it.

The thing was, the last two times it had been the strange inhabitants of this world who had sought him out not the other way around. He wasn't quite sure if he was able to talk to them on his own initiative. He didn't even know how to discern the talking plants from the mute ones.

He paled as a horrible thought came to his mind. 'What if they're the same?' Jaskier stared at the pink grass down in horror. 'Shit.'

"Hello?" he whispered warily. No response. He glanced around as if to check that he was alone—of course he was—and bent down. "Can you hear me?" he tried again. "Do you talk, too?"

Nothing.

Relief flooded over him. At least he hadn't been stomping all over a sentient being the whole time. At least he hadn't exposed his bumhole- 'Nope! Not going there.'

He fiddled with his lute strap to distract himself for all of these terrible thoughts that were adamant to take over his mind. There was still the lilac forest he tried to ignore. Maybe the trees could talk. Maybe they were smarter than larks and buttercups. He certainly hoped so.

Jaskier cleared his throat and raised his voice: "Excuse me?" he shouted at the trees. "I- excuse me? I've got a question! Hello? Excuse me? Can you hear me?"

He heard a giggle behind him. "Look at that idiot, trying to talk to trees." Jaskier spun around and spotted the culprit almost immediately: two stems with purple flowers he'd recognise anywhere. Larkspur.

He scoffed. "I'll have you know that I am no idiot at all, thank you very much. In fact, I graduated summa cum laude from Oxenfurt academy."

The flowers laughed again. "Like I said," the second one piped up with a voice that closely resembled another troubadour's he was regrettably acquainted with, "idiot." Jaskier despised it already.

"Well,  _ excuse me _ that I assumed plants talk here after leading a rather lovely conversation with a buttercup."

"Ughh," it groaned. " _ That _ imbecile. We're well acquainted. Are you just as annoying?"

"Gods, I hope not," he blurted before he knew what he was saying. The larkspur laughed again. "So, not all plants talk here?"

"No," the first one answered, as if it were obvious. Strangely, it was.

"Umm." Jaskier blinked, waiting for more. Apparently, that was the extent of the flowers' elaboration, for they didn't say anything else. "You wouldn't happen to know any poems, do you?"

"Maybe," they answered unhelpfully. "What's it to you?"

"Well, if you know one, I'd like to hear it."

They bristled and scoffed. "Why?"

"Uhh-" He hadn't been prepared for that question. Jaskier cursed internally. Why hadn't he been prepared for that question? He should've been prepared for that question. 'Fuck,' he thought, 'fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.' Improvisation it was, then: "Well, you see, when I met that wonderful buttercup over there it told me a poem and it promised that it was the best I'd ever hear in this world and any other."

There was a cry of outrage and Jaskier smirked. There was a lot of things excelled at, and riling up  _ Valdo fucking Marx _ certainly counted among his most accomplished ones. Or a flower with his voice, he guessed. He didn't really care, truly. He had information to acquire: "So, now I'm wondering. I have to admit, I wasn't awfully impressed, so maybe-"

The larkspur scoffed. "Of course, you weren't impressed. That buttercup is a talentless wastrel pandering to the tastes of the masses," it complained and, oh, Jaskier had heard that one before. He was suddenly overcome by the urge to strangle a flower.

"Also, no regard for intellectual property whatsoever," the first one continued and Jaskier nearly choked on his own spit. He had  _ said _ that one before. "Just like  _ you _ are."

Jaskier stared in mute horror as he watched the two stems begin to argue with one another. "It probably didn't even recite the poem correctly. You, good sir, are in the presence of a true master. At least  _ one _ , I will make no comments about my companion-"

Now it was Jaskier who scoffed, though he didn't dare to interrupt them. If they were anything like— well, any poet he knew there was no chance he'd get the poem after that. And so, there was nothing to be done but try his best to not have his ears start bleeding from the presumptuous lecture he was forced to endure.

After what felt close to an hour, Valdo-larkspur finally announced: "A poem, you say? I give you a poem.  _ Joy brings grief and tears do laugh _

_ Not all earth’s riches are enough. _

_ You are lost, but so am I, _

_ Come descend into the sky. _ " As soon as it was done, Jaskier-larkspur began commenting on his horrible rendition of it. 

Jaskier stared. And blinked. And stared again. " _ That's it _ ?!" he exclaimed disbelievingly. "That makes even less sense!" How the  _ fuck _ was he supposed to  _ descend _ into the  _ sky _ ?

"Oh, you don't like it?" they nagged. Great, now he had offended them both. "I gave you an hour of my time and this is how you repay me—" Before he knew it, they had descended into another heated argument, of which he recognised rather substantial parts. 'Gods preserve me,' he prayed, 'this is a nightmare.' Jaskier wondered if it was considered awfully rude to rip a flower out in this world, root and stem. Probably. Pity.

He sighed heavily. 'If only they hadn't given me an hour of their ti- Wait a minute.' "Hour, you said?" he interrupted them without thinking. "Do you know what hour it is?"

They scoffed. "Figure of speech."

"Of fucking course," he muttered. Still, he wasn't quite ready to give up on that, yet, so he tried again. "Have you got any idea what time it is? How is it passing here? How long is a day?"

"What is a day?" they answered.

'Gods give me strength,' he begged. "It's from one sunrise to the other."

"What's a sunrise?"

"It’s when the sun appears in the sky?"

"What’s a sun?"

"Oh, this is useless," Jaskier muttered and walked away without another word. He had quite enough of the worst combination of Valdo Marx and himself imaginable. And he had another stanza to think about. 'Not that it will do any good.'

Jaskier kept on walking. It was getting more and more frustrating with every step. He managed to talk to a few other flowers and birds, once even to a snail, but none of them were really helpful. Most of the birds had heard of Wade, at least; the flowers, on the other hand, were very useless. No more stanzas, no more directions, no more references to this Wade. Certainly, and most frustratingly, no answers as to where the sun was. And it was  _ really  _ getting late.

"Does anyone know a poem?" he yelled in the hopes of  _ someone _ hearing him. He knew it was desperate, alright? But desperate times called for desperate measures. At this point, he'd be grateful for  _ any _ hint. "Does anybody know what time it is?"

A heavy sigh made him whip around. "For fuck's sake man, how dense are you?" a deep voice grumbled. "Time’s an indefinite continued progress of existence and interdependent events that barely works in your world let alone ours. Just keep on walking."

Jaskier wanted to. He really did. But there was a dandelion throwing big words at him. He couldn't resist. He rushed over and crouched down. "Well, but you surely have a way of measuring it, don't you?" he asked eagerly.

"Time goes by if we catalogue it or not, the outcome is the same.” It yawned. Made a yawning sound. Whatever. Great. Jaskier managed to bore a  _ dandelion _ . “Your narrow human minds are too focused on how much of it passes that you neither notice how fast it does nor what happens while doing it."

He hummed thoughtfully. “I guess there is some truth to this.”

“Ugh.” The dandelion made a gagging sound. “Truth. Another one of your stupidities. What even is truth but the enforcement of a subjective point of view that is worthless for large parts of society at best, and downright harmful for them at worst? Why are you boring me with such first-grade bullshit?"

Jaskier gaped at him. ‘What the fuck?’ He’d really like to continue their conversation about truth, however, there were more pressing questions at hand: "You have a  _ school _ ?"

"Of course, we do. How else do you think we grow?"

"With sunlight."

The flower turned to the sky. "There’s no sun."

He groaned. And he’d thought this flower was helpful. "Yeah, I can bloody well see that too!"

"Whoa man, what got your knickers in a twist? No need to shout. The volume of your voice does not increase the validity of your argument."

"Let me guess,” he sighed. “Another thing you learned in school."

"Yup." It popped the p.

‘Focus, Jaskier,’ he told himself for the umpteenth time. ‘And  _ calm down. _ ’ Massaging his temples he asked: "Why'd you even go to school?"

"’Cause I'm beautiful, man."

Jaskier scoffed and was about to say something about humility, but it kept on talking: "I'm a pretty little flower with absolutely no purpose. All I’m meant to do is be pretty ‘til someone plucks me and I wither and die. Or I’m meant to stay in the place where I was born until I wither and die. I was havin’ none of that. I like bein’ looked at, don' get me wrong, but I don't like people thinking I'm dumb ‘cause I'm pretty. So, I got an education."

That… made an disturbing amount of sense. ‘Maybe I’m going crazy already,’ he thought. Surely no sane person could emotionally relate to a dandelion. 

“Are you done now?” it asked impatiently.

He supposed he was. "One last question: How do I get to... the garden?"

"Follow your heartbeat to the horizon, the second turn to the right after the battlefield pops you right into his garden."

‘Oh, great. More instructions that make absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever.’ Desperately, he asked: "Please. Can’t you tell me how to do that?"

"You said one last question,” it complained with a sigh.

“Please?” he begged again.

“Man, this is a paranormal netherworld that exists beyond what any mortal can grasp with its mind, you just do. Just do whatever the poem says."

"A poem!" he exclaimed excitedly. Finally. "Tell me about it, please."

"Man," the dandelion sighed, "really? That's... that's a lot of work, man."

"Yes, I know, but-"

"Fuck's sake, I'm on it, I'm on it," it drawled. "Stop stressing me out. It's something like this: 

_ Up is down and left is right, _

_ Do not lose your goal from sight. _

_ To go back, you must progress, _

_ For the fearless, no success. _

_ The knight is weak who joins the fray. _

_ A wand’rer in their place will stay. _

_ And when they’re gone the fools remain, _

_ A garden grows with no sustain. _

_ Joy brings grief and tears do laugh _

_ Not all earth’s riches are enough. _

_ You are lost, but so am I, _

_ Come descend into the sky. _

_ Come find me in my garden green, _

_ Come taste the fruit that’s never been. _

_ How to find my mighty throne? _

_ The answer’s plain: you don’t. _ "

"That... doesn't make any sense to me," Jaskier said helplessly.

"It will." It shrugged. "But it doesn't have to. You ever went to school, man?"

"Actually, I did."

"Right. You don't need to understand everything, buddy. Just follow the fucking instructions."

Jaskier sighed and got up. "Thank you." He had almost walked away when he circled back and crouched down to whisper: "Why is there no sun?"

There was a heavy sigh. "I don't know man, I'm just a flower."

"Yeah, yeah," he agreed quickly. "Just... don't mind me. Leaving already."

He had a poem to decipher after all. "Just follow the instructions," he muttered. As if that was an easy thing to do. 

He tried thinking about it. He really did. He tried to take the poem as literally as humanly possible. As literally as otherworldly possible, even! No success. 

It was infuriating, really. His mind was a fickle thing at the best of days, always hopping from one topic to the next. This was not the best of days. Just like the horizon that seemed to be moving further away with every step he took, his thoughts seemed to slip from his grasp once they got into reach.

"Fucking cock!" he threw his hands up. "I swear, witcher, if I get you out of here, I'll send you back myself." 

He crossed his arms and sat down on his butt to pout. He knew he was being unreasonable. But really, a world beyond the bounds of reason had no right to expect any sort of respectable behaviour from him. If he wanted to act like a child, he bloody well would. Maybe that might help him figure that out. Thinking like a child instead of an adult. 

After half an hour he came to the conclusion that it didn’t, so he got to his feet and started pacing. Always a good option. Normally, at least.

"Ughh!" Jaskier exclaimed and threw his hands up. "I just- I don't understand it!  _ Up is down and left is right _ , yeah, I get that everything is weird here.  _ To go back- _ For fuck's sake, I don't want to go back! I want to go forward!"

He stopped his pacing as realisation hit him. "Wait a minute," he murmured. " _ Up... is down _ ," he moved his head along with the words. " _ And left is right _ .  _ To go back _ -" He spun around. "-I must go forward. But if I go back-" He twirled again; his gaze fixed on the horizon. " _ Never lose your goal from sight _ , that's it!"

He pumped his fist in the air. "I am a godsdamned genius!" He laughed giddily.

"Alright, alright, calm down," he told himself and took a deep breath. There was still one line missing: " _ For the fearless, no success _ ," he muttered. 

"Good thing I'm a fucking coward." Jaskier laughed weakly and began walking backwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope I got you to laugh with this nonsense. Feel free to leave a comment or come over to chat with me on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if you liked it!


	4. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having braved the nightmare of figuring out the meaning of a near incomprehensible poem, one should think that the nightmares of the netherworld come to an end. Alas, Destiny is not as kind. Retracing their steps, Jaskier is taken to the darkest chapters of his and Geralt's lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the the longest (and angstiest) chapter of this fic! Compared to the others that are found in this fandom, this is fairly mild, but please heed the tags.  
> And have fun reading!

It was, admittedly, a bit strange, to say the least, to keep walking backwards with his eyes affixed on the horizon. He extended his arms to get a better balance, still he tripped and stumbled over rocks and tree stumps and thin air. It probably would've been easier with just a glance over his shoulder. But-

'No,' he decided. 'I mustn't lose my goal from sight.' If he was entirely honest, that was probably the most difficult part.

Many people assume that in a netherworld without a physical body they cannot be troubled by such trivial things such as the paltry ache of keeping your eyes open without blinking. That is untrue. 

There are some aspects of humanity that are so ingrained into the core of their very being that they cannot imagine a world without it. Boogers, for example, and armpit hair, or sweat. Or the pressing urge to blink.

And no matter how much Jaskier tried to fight it, there was just no hope of escaping the burn. 

He blinked. 

The scenery in front of him had changed. "What the fuck?" he murmured quietly as he took in the familiar countryside.

It was late in autumn it seemed; most of the trees had already shrugged off their colourful cloaks of withered leaves, though the first snow was yet to come. In front of him, a beautiful keep rose up at the horizon. The walls of limestone were pristine as ever, the red shingles glistening after a recent rain shower, bright banners flapping in the wind. The whole image looked as if plucked from a nightmarish fairy tale. "Huh," he muttered to himself. "Didn't expect I'd end up here of all places." Self-consciously he tugged at the cuffs of his blue silk doublet. Hadn't he been naked?

He decided not to think about that too much and instead be grateful for the armour that would protect him from piecing stares and cutting comments. He had no time for it either, for within the blink of an eye his vision shifted again and he stood within the empty courtyard.

'Strange.' There should be guards. Servants. The Count or Countess perhaps. Instead, there was nothing but eerie quiet and wisps of fog curling around his feet. It was almost enough for him to feel concern rising within hi-

"Julian Alfred Pankratz!" Jaskier froze on instinct, the booming voice bearing down on him like whip lashes.

‘Fuck.’ Twenty years. Twenty years since he had last returned home, and still— His heart was beating frantically in his chest, as if it wanted to jump right out of it. Given his previous experiences in this place, he didn't consider this impossible. 'Shit,' he cursed silently. 'It just _had_ to be Lettenhove, hadn't it?'

He screwed his eyes shut, to drown out the litany of his father, the words nearly indistinguishable through the thick haze clouding his mind, though still drawing closer.

When he finally opened them again and had managed to blink away the bright lights distorting his vision, he realised he wasn't outside anymore. Instead, he was standing in front of a nondescript double door he knew like the back of his hand and had hoped to never see again.

It stood the slightest bit ajar, just so that he could peer inside. There was his father behind his desk, Lord Lettenhove intimidating as always. And- Jaskier frowned.

A little boy standing in front of him, with a mop of brown hair and a silken doublet that looked much like the one Jaskier was wearing. His mouth formed a silent 'O.' He couldn't see the boy's face, nor betrayed his body a single thing, yet he knew that he was crying.

'This isn't real,' he understood. 'This is a memory.'

"Father, please-" the boy begged, but his voice broke and shoulders gave the slightest tremble, the only hint of the terror that stole his and Jaskier's voices alike. 'For the fearless no success,' he reminded himself. 'Well, I'm fucking terrified. I'm getting out of here.'

He wanted to close his eyes so that this strange world would bring him to another place. But they didn't. No matter how adamantly he ordered them to shut, his eyelids didn't budge. 'Poor boy,' a voice in the back of his mind said. 'Poor _me_. I can't leave like this.'

"Well, Sir?" his father asked coldly. "Don't you have anything to say in your defence?"

Jaskier screwed his eyes shut, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. He cursed quietly: "Get it together, Jaskier!" He hadn't dealt with stage fright for nearly thirty years to succumb to fear now. So, he squared his shoulders and passed through the oaken wood of the door.

"Actually, your lordship," he spoke up, "I do."

Lord Lettenhove whirled around and gasped. "You!" he spit out and pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Where have you been? Your mother is worried sick."

"She isn't," he said casually and strolled over to his child self. "She never is. Besides, she's been dead for a decade." He went down on one knee to get on eye level with him. "Hello there," he greeted him with a smile he hoped to be reassuring. "It certainly has been a while."

Julian raised his gaze, his eyes puffy and red with tears, the fear lingering even now. For a moment he couldn't help but stare in bewilderment. 'Was it really that bad?' He hadn't even remembered.

"Who are you?" Julian asked.

"A scoundrel," their father huffed indignantly, "and a coward."

Jaskier's smile grew even wider. "He's right," he confessed. "I am you, little one. Just without- this." He waved his hand around vaguely.

Julian's eyes widened even further, his gaze flicking around nervously. Finally, it settled on the lute case. "Are you a bard?" he whispered secretively.

"A failure," their father commented, "a disgrace upon our name."

He ignored him. "Oh no, little one. I am no mere bard. I am an adventurer, a poet, a minstrel. I am all that you dream to be and more. I am Jaskier, the most renowned troubadour of the Continent. But most importantly, I am alive. I am real. And you, my lord," slowly he rose to his feet and turned to their father, "are _nothing_."

"Excuse you?" he gasped. "You will take that back, young man."

"No," he answered calmly. "I don't think I will. I was taught to always tell the truth, so tell the truth I shall. And that truth is that you, _father_ , are not deserving of any obedience or respect a son owes his parents. And least of all love."

Lord Lettenhove sneered. "You are no son of mine," he spat out and for a moment those words were enough to make Jaskier tense up. He could well remember when he had heard them—and seen his family—the last time. He could still taste the despair on his tongue, the tears running down his cheeks, the overwhelming urge to beg-

"No," he interrupted the spiral of hopelessness that threatened to drag him away. 'I have reimagined my memories hundreds of times. I can do it again.' He straightened his back and raised his chin. "No, Alfred, I am not. You _wish_ you had a son like me."

"I do not-"

Jaskier scoffed and turned his back to him. He had spent far too much time listening to his father in his life already, he did not plan on doing it any longer. "Hey, Julian," he said instead, "do you want to hear a poem? How about a limerick?"

The Count de Lettenhove gasped indignantly: "Julian, how- Such verses are beneath us."

"And they are above your intellect," he retorted with a wink at Julian. "Let's see, I think I've got a good one:

_There once was a Countlet named Alfred,_

_Whose aim was to cause fright and dread._

_He thought himself smart_

_For he despised the arts,_

_Alas, he was dumber than bread._ "

Julian's eyes gleamed and he snickered. Well. He considered that a good start. "Another?" he challenged and the boy nodded eagerly. "How about this?

_There once was a Redanian Countess_

_Who was famed for her martial prowess._

_She boasted she taught_

_Her son to wield a sword,_

_But was beaten by a pigeon at chess._ ”

Giggling, Julian almost didn't look scared anymore. "A last one, yeah?" Jaskier proposed and he nodded eagerly. "This one I know from a friend. Ready?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed excitedly.

"Alright." He cleared his throat and said with as much dignity and gravitas as possible: " _Lambert, Lambert, what a prick._ "

By now Julian was laughing openly, nearly doubling over with the force of it. 'There,' Jaskier thought with a satisfied smile, 'that's better.'

He blinked.

The road that led through the early-summer forest was empty except for a cart disappearing in the distance. Jaskier frowned and turned around. What on earth had led him here? As far as he could remember it, he had never seen that place before. Plus, there was no-one around.

Maybe he was just supposed to follow the road. With a shrug Jaskier decided that was as good a guess as any and began walking. He hadn't gotten far when he heard the prattling of tiny feet behind him. "Ma?" a young boy shouted. "Ma!"

Jaskier wanted to keep on walking. He didn’t know this boy, so this hardly concerned him. He rally tried to keep on walking. Really. But something made him turn around. Maybe the fear in the boy's cry: "Ma!" Probably the sob when he yelled: "Visenna!"

The boy couldn't be any older than seven years at most, probably he was younger still, and there were tears glistening in the corner of his eyes. "Ma?" he asked again.

"Sorry, buddy," Jaskier said. "No-one around but me."

"But- She said- She told me to get water," he stammered. "She was thirsty."

"Oh." His heart sank. What was he even supposed to tell him? That she was surely coming back? That was a lie, no mother left her child in the woods with the intention of coming back. He had seen it often enough in the past. Mostly it was because of hunger, or sickness, sometimes just good old poverty as well. Some of the children were believed to be cursed, or changelings, or whatever other thing humans came up with to keep hurting each other. 

This child, however, did not seem to fit any of the categories. He looked almost disturbingly boring. He was well-fed and properly clothed as well, a healthy blush on his cheeks. Jaskier had no idea what had led the mother to abandon him out here. "I'm sorry," was the best he managed. The boy's lower lip wobbled dangerously. 'Please don't start crying,' Jaskier begged whichever higher power was listening. He was shit with children; he couldn't handle a crying one. "What's your name?" he asked, trying to prevent the inevitable.

"Geralt," the boy answered with a frail voice.

"Oh," Jaskier said again. 'Oh, _fuck_ ,' he thought. No wonder he didn't recognise the memory—it was taking place over half a century before he was even born. "Geralt," he repeated stupidly. Geralt as a child. Geralt before the trials. Geralt who had, presumably, just been abandoned before heading to Kaer Morhen. Geralt who was just about to cry.

'Shit.' He had to do something. And fast. "Well, Geralt, I'm glad that I stumbled upon you here. I couldn't imagine braving the way through this wilderness on my own."

The boy frowned—an expression that looked much cuter on this Geralt than on the one Jaskier was acquainted with. "I know you," he decided after a few moments.

"Yes," he agreed. "You will. Come, I tell you a story while we walk."

He started walking into the direction the cart had left. Boy-Geralt hurried to catch up with him and slipped his hand in his. "You look funny," he remarked.

Jaskier snorted. "It's called fashion, thank you very much." He regarded him with a fond, wry smile. "I'm glad not everything about you changes once you grow up."

"Are you a prince?" Geralt asked as if Jaskier hadn't said anything at all. 'The selective deafness isn't new either, I see.' 

"Not quite," he answered honestly. "I am a Viscount, but that's unimportant. You will know me as a bard and the most annoying creature in existence."

"A bard?" he asked excitedly, skipping along next to him. "I will know a bard? Will you sing songs of me? Will we be friends?"

"All of that and more," he chuckled. "Although you won't always be grateful for it."

"I can't imagine that." They walked barely two paces in silence before Geralt asked: "Will I be a knight? Will I slay a dragon? Is that why I will know you?"

"No," Jaskier answered as kindly as he could. "You will _save_ a dragon. As a witcher."

"A witcher?" Geralt's eyes went wide in horror. "No, that can't be! Witchers are scary!"

"Well, you can be very scary," he agreed. "But most of the time you aren't. You see, there was this one time when we were travelling and you found a dog. It was old, and had a broken leg and had been left to die in the woods. But instead of killing it, you set its bone, heaved it onto your horse's back and found a place for it to stay. You weren't with me then, but a few years later I visited the same town and it was still there, hale and hearty."

He glanced down at the boy to check if he had the boy’s attention. Of course, he had; Geralt was practically hanging on his lips. "Oh, or that other time when you were hired to slay a troll and we chose to remigrate him instead. Sounds easy enough, right?"

Geralt nodded.

"Well, it wasn't. You see, while trolls are certainly smarter than... drowners, let's say, they are not _terribly_ intelligent. We tried talking to him, wasted half a night while doing so—because we couldn't remigrate him during the day, since you were supposed to kill him—until we managed to explain to him that he should get up and follow us. It worked until we reached another bridge where he had lived previously, as it seemed. He decided he might just as well live there again, and then we had to remigrate him _again_." Jaskier laughed at the memory. "I think we repeated that four times at least. And didn't even get paid in the end, can you believe that?"

"Another," Geralt begged eagerly. "Please, tell another one.

"Alright," Jaskier agreed. And so, he did what he did best: singing Geralt of Rivia's praises. He talked until his throat was raw, and kept on talking after that. Only when the sun set and Geralt fell almost asleep on his feet, did they seek out a place to rest.

They found a nice dry spot next to a stream, just like Geralt would teach him almost a century from now. Jaskier dug a pit to start a campfire, as Geralt collected firewood, and dug out some dried rations from his pack, that had miraculously appeared along the way. Once they were both sated, he laid his bedroll out for the boy and took the first watch. Well, the only watch, more like it. 

He leaned against a log they had dragged onto the clearing together, plucking idly at his lute strings to accompany an old lullaby he half-remembered his nursemaid singing. Satisfied, he watched as the boy fell asleep and only then, finally, did exhaustion wash over him. He felt so drained, from walking for what felt like weeks without a break. He'd just set his lute down and rest his eyes for a little bit and—

He blinked.

"Get out!" the innkeeper barked and Jaskier sprung to his feet. "Get out, you useless bastard! And don't bother coming back in."

"Fuck," he cursed quietly as he lunged to catch the man—boy, really—that was about to land face-first in the mud. Too late. The Oxenfurt graduate was already eating dirt. And not moving. Well, _that_ was concerning. "Are you alright?" Jaskier asked.

"Ow," the boy groaned, still without so much as lifting his head.

He flopped down next to his younger self with a sigh. "Yeah, I know. Bruised ego hurts like shit. But no broken bones at least, eh?"

"This time."

He winced. He'd forgotten how shitty it had been before he had become famous. "You need to get up," he told him without too much empathy. Whining would get them nowhere. "You'll ruin your doublet else, and we both know that you don't have the coin for a new one. No-one likes a dirty bard." Besides, they had to greet a witcher in the very same get-up not quite two months from now.

"I hate you," Julian-Jaskier grumbled as he got himself into a sitting position.

"You hate the world and think that's the same as hating yourself and everyone around you," he corrected him. "There's a difference." He had also forgotten his dramatics of his teenage years, it seemed. Not that he was keen to remember them.

The bardlet rolled his eyes and huffed in annoyance. "What do you want? I really had a shitty day and don't need a visit from... what even is this? Future me?"

"Something like that," Jaskier grumbled. "Believe me, I'm not thrilled to be here either."

"Then go away."

"Can't," he explained. "Not until I help you... or something."

"Help me?" He snorted. "How are you supposed to help me?"

The thing was, Jaskier wasn't quite sure either. There really was no helping him; he had no money to give and besides, that wouldn't make much of a difference either. It never had, not until he stole the lute from the drunk disgrace of a bard in a month, at least. Wait a minute-

"A lute!" he exclaimed.

"Huh?"

"I have a lute, I can give it to you," Jaskier babbled excitedly and scrambled to his feet.

"And how's that going to help me?" Julian-Jaskier asked sceptically.

"Performances, you idiot! No-one wants to listen to just a bard; everyone loves bards with lutes. It's right— shit." He grabbed his lutestrap to find— nothing.

"What?" he scoffed. "Lost it or something?"

"What? Lost it?" He laughed nervously. "No, that's ridiculous. I just, um—" He started patting down his breeches, as if he might have hidden it there. "—misplaced it, that's it." He turned on the spot, searching the ground. He had just put it down when Geralt had gotten tired and— "Fuck!"

"You lost it?"

"I lost it."

Julian-Jaskier laughed. Actually laughed. "What?" he asked when he saw Jaskier's resentful glare. "Don't tell me you've stopped looking on the bright side of life."

"How is _this_ the bright side?!"

"Oh, I don't know," he flashed him a wide grin. "I actually consider you losing the lute you wanted to gift—"

"Lend!"

"—yourself rather funny."

"Ughh!" Jaskier exclaimed and pointed an accusatory finger in his direction. "You are a brat." He had no time for that. He needed to go back to Geralt and get the lute. He blinked. Nothing happened. He blinked again. And again, and again, and again, and again. Nothing. "Fuck!"

Julian-Jaskier grinned even wider. "You _do_ realise the comedic potential in this scene, right?"

"I don't care about the comedic potential! I just want my fucking lute!" He turned away from the annoyance—really, how Geralt had allowed him to travel with him was beyond him. Oh right. He hadn't—and stared at the sky. "Hey!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "You there, looking at all of this! Coram Agh Tera? Wade? Well, whatever your name is, you wanker, take me back to the previous one! I need my lute!"

Nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, there was the barely stifled snorting laughter of Julian-Jaskier in the background, but he decided to ignore that, so it was basically nothing. "Come on, mate! I just forgot my lute! How am I supposed to help this one without a lute?"

Still no answer.

"You know, I don't really think this is going to work," Julian-Jaskier quipped.

"Shut the fuck up, you midget. I know that!"

He sighed and finally got to his feet, grimacing as he took in the ruined fabric of his breeches. "I'm sure there's another way to help me besides conjuring up your lute from thin air."

"Well, probably," Jaskier hissed, "but in any case, I'd really like my lute back. It's _my_ lute, alright, I'm attached to it. I get it three months from now and _I want it back!_ Right now! Right here in my hands!"

The weight was sudden and entirely unexpected, so Jaskier actually stumbled a bit. Flabbergasted, he stared down at Filavandrel's lute in his hands. "Oh," he said simply. "I suppose that works."

Julian-Jaskier looked very stupid when surprised. 'Gods, I hope I don't look like that,' Jaskier prayed. Given that his looks had barely changed since that day, however, he didn't have all too high hopes. "How did you do that?" the bardlet asked.

"I don't know," he admitted truthfully. "I just wished really hard to have a lute."

"Brilliant." His eyes gleamed. "Do you think I can do that, too?"

"No," he answered simply and thrust the lute into his hands. "Just go and do your fucking performance. I have places to be."

"Alright, alright!" Julian-Jaskier agreed and took off running towards the tavern.

'I should really do something about the dirt,' Jaskier thought as he took in the mud-caked seam of his pants. 

He blinked. 

The dirt was gone.

Julian-Jaskier looked down at himself and grinned. "Thank you!" he shouted back over the pristine shoulder of his doublet and vanished inside. 

He blinked.

His surroundings melted away once more and rebuilt themselves in a town square. Jaskier frowned, trying to remember if it looked familiar. He didn't think so, though it was hard to tell. After the first hundred or so, they all started to blur together.

What was strange, though, were the people. There were quite a lot of them and he didn't recognise any of them. 'Weird,' he thought. Come to think of it, he wasn't quite sure he had even seen their clothes before. It reminded him of the garb his parents and grandparents used to wear when he'd been a child. It had to be one of Geralt's memories, then.

The faint ringing of swords filled the air as terror gripped him. "Oh no," Jaskier whispered hoarsely as his surroundings shifted again in a nauseating whirl. 

He blinked. 

Even before he saw the woman's corpse he knew exactly where—or rather when—he was. Geralt had never told him of this story, not really, at least. But he had heard rumours, and then, after meeting the witcher, had gathered as many stories as he could to find, to get to the truth at the core of it. 

"Incredible," an old, bearded man said as he knelt at her side. "Marilka," he said and stumbled to his feet. "Marilka? Marilka! Get me a cart. We'll take her to the tower for an autopsy."

Jaskier felt the overwhelming urge to punch Stregobor in the face. He probably could have. He probably should have. But before he had a chance, there was a bloodied blade at the mage's throat. "If you touch a single hair on her head," Geralt growled, "yours will be on the ground next." It was Geralt, quite obviously so. Still, he looked different. Younger, in a way. Much less guarded than the man he knew, with a wild look in his eyes Jaskier had never seen before.

"Have you gone mad?" Stregobor asked. "Her mutation, it influences people. That's how she got these men to follow her." His eyes narrowed just a bit. "She got to you, too, didn't she?"

"Do not," Geralt snarled, "touch her."

"Witcher," the mage answered in the most condescending voice imaginable and, oh, Jaskier definitely would punch him now, "you butchered bodies in the streets of Blaviken."

"You're a beast," a man called from the crowd.

"You endangered the girl," a woman added and Jaskier decided that all of them could bugger off, thank you very much.

"I think this is quite enough," he said calmly as he stepped forward, shifting in front of Geralt as time came to a halt. "Lower your sword, dear. Please."

The witcher stared down at him in confusion. "What-" He blinked a few times and his gaze cleared. "Jaskier," he whispered.

"The very same," he said and bowed with a flourish. "The sword, love." He squeezed his hand lightly and watched with relief as Geralt did as he was told. "Let me take care of this mess for you."

The witcher nodded and the world started spinning again. "Good people of Blaviken," he began and opened his arms. The familiar weight of his lute appeared much faster than the first time. "You can count yourselves lucky, for on this day you are in the presence of not only the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, but also the master bard Jaskier. Truly, you are in for the performance of a lifeti-"

"Jaskier," Geralt hissed quietly.

"Yes, dear?"

"This is not really the place for a performance." He pointed at the corpses and the townspeople who stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. Ughh. Right. And then there was also-

"Who do you even think you are?" puffed Stregobor.

"Jaskier, the bard, and I don't like repeating myself," he quipped. "So, I suggest you shut the fuck up, old man." Immediately, his mouth snapped shut. Still, Jaskier wasn't finished: "You are a bumbling idiot who keeps babbling about some mutation _nonsense_. It's not her fault that you have the charisma of a wooden spoon and lack _any kind_ of imagination. Really, it is not that hard to believe that a woman could inspire people. You are a pitiful creature."

The people around him still stared in open-mouthed bewilderment. "Close your mouth, dear, I'm not done, yet," he told Geralt and tipped his jaw up. He really should do something about all the bodies.

Jaskier frowned, concentrating hard. Shrouds appeared from thin air and covered the corpses and the blood vanished from Geralt's face. "Jaskier," the witcher growled, annoyed. Alright, maybe he had overdone it with the flower crown, but this was a dream world; when would he ever get such a chance again? "Focus."

Right. Not his strong suit, but he had a performance to deliver. And _that_ was very much his strong suit. Gently, he plucked at the lute strings, the notes almost manifesting before he did so. " _When a humble bard_ ," he began; the song came as easy to him as breathing. 

The audience didn't seem too enthusiastic. It took him until the end of the first refrain to realise why. "Oh," he said, his lute making a dissonant twang. "I suppose I'm just about two decades early with this, aren't I?" Of course. How could he have been so _stupid_? 'Well, only one way to change that.'

" _Toss a coin to your Witcher,_ " he sang loudly, " _Oh, valley of plenty_

_Oh, valley of plenty, oh_

_Toss a coin to your Witcher_

_Oh, valley of plenty!_ "

He blinked.

The wind tugged at him to the tune of a camp being set up. Jaskier knew where he was even before he opened his eyes. "Ah," he breathed, taking in the silhouette of Geralt sitting on the rock. And his own self approaching him. "Shit." He winced in sympathy for his heartbroken, aching self. Well, not heartbroken yet, but soon to be.

He wasn't surprised, to be honest. Not really. But _fuck_ was he afraid of it. With all the other scenes he'd had at least a semblance of an idea of how to fix them. But this? He couldn't really change himself, could he now?

In the end, it had all worked out just fine, of course. Geralt and he had found each other again and after a bit of awkwardness and a muttered apology by Geralt they had continued travelling with each other again. While his witcher definitely wasn't a man of words, Jaskier could see his remorse just fine. He was fluent in all of Geralt's silences, and the plethora of gifts and smiles he got was better than any spoken apology in the world.

Still. It hurt.

Geralt shifted a bit, hearing his footsteps. Jaskier had to do something, and fast. "That's not really going to cut it," he muttered. His blubbering, yearning self wasn't going to be of any more assistance now than the last time. "Sorry, mate, but you have to go." With an ever so quiet _pop_ the other Jaskier vanished.

It earned him a gruff Geralt grunt. "Jaskier," the witcher said without even turning around. "What do you want?"

'Alright, so we're doing this,' he thought and did his best to steel himself. "Nothing but a chat, old friend," he tried to say as casually as possible and sat down next to him. "Just like the good old days, hm?"

"Hmm."

"Funny. I thought you'd say that," he replied in a feeble attempt at comedy.

Geralt rolled his eyes, but didn't manage to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth quite fast enough. "Jaskier."

"Not helping?"

"Hmm."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah, didn't think so."

He waited with bated breath for his witcher to say something, but apparently, he considered their conversation done. 'Looks like I have to talk myself out of this mess,' he thought. 'Like always.'

Time to put his money where his mouth was: "Look," he said and wet his lip with his tongue. "I know how it feels when people die. It's always hard. And it doesn't get any easier the more it happens."

"Your point, bard?"

He closed his eyes. He still didn't have any fucking clue on how to solve this. Only one way to go, then: "I have a proposition for you I already know the answer to. But—" He took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm his violently beating heart. "It's all been a bit much, lately, yeah? All these... djinns and children of surprise and dragons. So, why don't we get away for a while? We could head to the coast."

Geralt snorted. "Never took you for the maritime type."

"Well, I'm not," Jaskier answered, glad for the tension to lift, if only a little. "I get horribly seasick, you see? But that's not the point."

"Then what is?" They were going for the fond annoyance, apparently. It certainly was an improvement to last time.

It also loosened Jaskier's tongue; he could barely keep himself from babbling and _that_ really wouldn't make it better. "Life's too short to spend it being unhappy. You should do what pleases you while you can."

"Composing your next song?" And there it was. The moment he'd inevitably fuck up.

"No, I just, uh-" He let his head drop. "I'd say I'm just trying to figure out what pleases me, but that's a lie. I figured that out a long time ago."

"Sleeping with other people's spouses is not really a life goal, Jaskier."

"Oh, ha ha," he retorted. "Very funny. But that's not— That's not what I'm talking about."

"What, we still haven't reached the fucking point?" he asked with the slightest hint of a smirk.

"No, I— Gosh, this is harder than I thought. It's you, Geralt. You're what pleases me."

The witcher turned to him with incredibly wide eyes despite the frown. As if he was surprised. As if he couldn't fathom why Jaskier would say that.

He shrugged. "It's true. I'm never as happy as I am at your side. Just spending time with you. You're the most important person in this world to me. In any world, really. I couldn't— I _cannot_ bear losing you. Maybe it's selfish, but I just— I just want to have you for myself for a bit. Not share you with those who are hellbent on killing you. Not share you with anyone."

"Hmm." Geralt tilted his head to the side, a curious look Jaskier couldn't quite decipher in his eyes. In all the years of their acquaintance he had never, _ever_ looked at him like that.

"Just— let me show you?" he begged. "Please? I know it's not what-"

But Geralt didn't let him finish. "Alright," he interrupted him. "Tomorrow."

He blinked. 

Geralt stood a few feet away with Borch and Yennefer. "The sorceress will never regain her womb," he caught the last remnants of their conversation. "And though you didn't want to lose her, you will."

"He already has," Yennefer answered with a frail voice and stormed away. Jaskier scrambled to his feet when she passed him, catching Geralt's longing gaze.

'Shit,' he thought. This would be heartbreak all over again. 'It always was going to be.'

Geralt looked down at Borch. "Hmm," he said and trudged over to Jaskier. "The coast, you said?"

"Y-yeah," he stammered.

"Hm." He shouldered past him and grumbled: "They better have some good fucking ale there." After a few steps he realised that Jaskier wasn't following him and turned around. "You coming?" he asked with an outstretched hand.

"I am," he replied and scrambled to catch up with him. "In my experience, they also have excellent vodka," Jaskier joked and grasped Geralt's hand tightly. 

He blinked.

It was a clear day on the cliffside. The ocean stretched out to the horizon in all its deep, dark blue glory, its waves crashing gently on the rocky shore. "Oh," Jaskier simply said.

"Hmm," Geralt replied and draped an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer.

'This is so much better than being here alone,' he thought. "It's beautiful," he said.

"It's nice," Geralt said. From the witcher that was probably as poetic as it got. And, oh, that curious look in Geralt's eyes looked even better with a smile accompanying it.

A warm feeling filled his chest. 'I really could get used to this,' he thought. "There's another thing, Geralt," he blurted suddenly. "I lo-"

He blinked.

The world turned upside down. He cursed himself for being so fucking _stupid_. Because, of course, he had not only ruined the probably single-most romantic scene to confess his feelings for Geralt, the worst also, apparently, was still ahead of him. 

Jaskier had never been to Kaer Morhen before. Geralt hadn't even trusted him enough to betray so much as the smallest detail of its location. Still, there could be no doubt as to where he had ended up this time. Not with the vials and jars and jugs full of dubiously coloured liquids. Not with the witcher and mage looming over the scene, whose presence Jaskier barely registered.

All he saw were the wide, terrified, hazel eyes of the boy straining against the shackles tying him to the table. "No," Geralt begged, "please, Vesemir, I can't."

"Yes, you can," the old witcher answered. "It'll be over before you know it."

"No," Jaskier whispered, his eyes widening in horror. "No, I won't let that—"

He blinked.

Vesemir was gone, though Jaskier thought he might hear the distant sound of retching. The mage was still there, mumbling quietly in Elder.

"No!" he shouted again and leapt forward to push him back, to get him to stop, to- His hands passed right through him. As if he wasn't even there. As if he was a ghost. "No, stop, I won't-!"

He blinked.

The pain hit him completely unprepared, punching the air from his lungs. Wheezing, Jaskier staggered on his feet. He felt himself reminded of his first meeting with Geralt. Only that this time it didn't stop.

He could feel the burn of the toxins in his veins as his blood rushed, his body twisting, fighting, transforming. The boy on the table strained against his shackles, his mouth open with a silent plea he could not utter.

Jaskier could, though. Blinding pain ripped through his body as his knees gave out beneath him. A horrible scream erupted from his mouth, agony consuming any semblance of humanity.

After what seemed an eternity the pain ebbed off again; the burning fire in his body still pulsing, threatening to come back.

"No," Jaskier whispered, his vision still clouded from agony, but Geralt was still there. Had to still be there. "I won't let you suffer."

White hot pain surged again. "No!" he commanded, cried, sobbed. "No... Please—!" He screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed, until his throat was sore, raw, burning. He screamed and screamed and screamed until he could no more and Geralt and he were coughing up blood.

The pain flared and Jaskier's voice gave out. 'I can't do this any longer.' He didn't- He couldn't- He couldn't talk. 'But I don't need words to imagine.'

With a trembling hand he reached out, strained until his fingertips grazed over Geralt's arm— And collapsed. Jaskier sobbed, and thrashed, and curled himself up into a little ball, suddenly wishing for the same chains Geralt wore. That way he had at least _something_ to hold onto. Jaskier had nothing.

Nothing but pain.

An agonised whine sounded from above him. Jaskier whimpered. He wanted to reach out, wanted to soothe him, wanted to— But he couldn't. He couldn't speak, he couldn't move, he barely could think as the world flickered around him. He wasn’t strong enough. 

He sobbed. ‘No,’ he thought. 'No, it can’t end here, I can’t wake up yet, I need to stay— I need it to make it stop for him. I need to, I have to, I must.'

He braced himself. The world flickered again. A soft sound of music floated down to him, a chant in Elder. For the next onslaught he was ready. As ready as one could be. He breathed in, let the pain fill him until it almost became too much. 'No,' he decided. Then again, more forceful: ' _No!_ This is not who you are.' The pain twisted and churned in his gut, like liquid fire, but he would take it. He would take it all, if need be.

'You are human.' A second voice joined the first in its chant. He ignored them both. His eyes shut as tightly as he could, Jaskier _imagined_ , flickering reality be damned. An incredible feeling rushed through him. Like flying. Suddenly, it was almost easy. He didn't imagine the pain away, that was far beyond his capabilities. But he could imagine it differently instead. He could imagine rightful anger, or heartfelt grief; and even a tiny sliver of hope.

'You are kind.' He could imagine laughter and tears, embraces and kisses and smiles. He could imagine songs and poems and jokes. Friendship and love and family. He could imagine dragons, knights and mages, queens, kings, and children of surprise. He could imagine bards and horses, elves, selkiemores, djinns.

'You are worthy of all good things in life and more.' He couldn't imagine the pain away. That was far beyond his capabilities. But he could imagine so much else that the pain became insignificant.

He didn't know when it stopped, or why. Jaskier opened his eyes and looked at his hands. He tilted his head to the side. Something had changed. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something was different. He hadn’t even noticed how transparent he had been before. But he wasn’t anymore. He looked just as real as his surroundings. 

Jaskier looked up to meet Geralt's eyes, glaring gold in the dark. "Thank you," he whispered.

He nodded shakily and rose up on his knees.

He blinked.

A voice behind them spoke up: "Again."

Jaskier stood on his trembling legs. "No," he commanded. " _Enough_."

The mage attempted to step forward. Jaskier glared at him and the man stopped, frozen with one foot in the air. "No," he repeated, "you have no power here. You are a memory, a dream, a fantasy. And I do not want to continue this dream!" With every word the air around them began vibrating, as the feeling filled him again. It felt like floating. 

"Get lost!" he yelled. The door flung open, frozen air coasting in. "You are not welcome here."

He took a step forward and the mage stepped back, his form flickering. "You never were, and never will be. Get _lost_ "

"Who do you think you are?" the mage scoffed. "With what magic do you think you can best me?"

Jaskier laughed hoarsely. "I am Geralt's _friend_ ," he declared. The ground shook with every step he took. "I am no mage, no witcher, no Child of Elder Blood. Just a bard with a lute. Just a man with an imagination.” The calm feeling within him dissipated, a storm brewing within his stomach. Not like liquid fire, but like frozen lightning. The air around him thrummed, wind swirling through the laboratory. “And I told you to get. _LOST_!"

"No," the mage wheezed, "you can't-" His body flickered again. And flickered. And blinked out of existence. 

"How _dare_ you?" the Count de Lettenhove boomed, looming up dangerously before him. "My own-"

"GET LOST!" Jaskier yelled. He vanished and his mother appeared in his stead. "Get lost, get lost, get lost, get lost, get lost!" With every word he said another ghost appeared in the chamber. Stregobor, Yennefer, Renfri, his brother, his sister, Queen Calanthe, Visenna. Faces he knew like the back of his hand and others he had never seen before blurred together before his eyes in a nauseating whirlwind of impressions.

He sobbed and thrashed and laughed as he banished each and every one of them to whatever circle of hell they had crawled forth from. Floating, flying, his mind clawing at the edges of the reality he rewrote. The castle around him trembled and shook like his knees, stones and memories collapsing, falling, vanishing before crushing them. He was at the eye of the storm, clouds of wind and darkness swirling around him, interspersed with lighting. It hurt, it burned, it stung, but he did not stop. Could not stop. Would not stop. 

Until it was over. 

Jaskier hadn’t even noticed it. He probably never would have noticed if not for the boy tugging at his hand. "It's pretty."

"What is?" Jaskier mumbled weakly. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. It took him a while to process the beautiful winter landscape that stretched out before him. It looked like it had been plucked straight from a storybook. It had everything it needed: a lake, covered with a thick layer of ice, an orchard adorned with icicles, a hill to go sledding. Picture-perfect.

Well. A storybook where the snow was green, the trees purple and the sky orange, eternally stuck in sunset with no sun to be seen.

Still. It looked beautiful. Serene, even. Even more magnificent than he had imagined. "Thank you," he answered, his voice much quieter than the enthusiastic child's on his other side. "I'm Jaskier," the boy said.

The boy on his right smiled widely and extended his hand: "Geralt."

"That's a nice name." Child-Jaskier shook it excitedly. "I can already tell that we're going to be the best of friends."

"That would be nice," Geralt answered.

"What do I do now?" Jaskier and Jaskier asked.

"Hmm." Geralt frowned, apparently thinking hard. "Do you know how to build a snowman?"

"I do," they replied.

"I never built a snowman."

"Come," child-Jaskier said and tugged on his hand. "I'll show you."

Jaskier watched the two boys slip down the hill on their butts. He watched them run to the lake, watched them build a green snowman. He was relieved, he realised. Relieved, to see them happy. Still, the question remained: 'What do I do now?'

"Man," a bored voice next to him made him whip around. The dandelion yawned. Made a yawning sound. Whatever. "I already told you what to do."

"You!" he raised an accusatory finger. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know, man," it sighed heavily. "This is your dreamworld." 

"Fuck," he muttered. "Can't you at least help me figure out the rest of the poem?"

"I already did. Just follow the instructions. Follow—"

“—your heartbeat to the horizon, then take the second turn right after the battle field, I know,” he grumbled. “Have I reached the horizon yet?”

“I don’t know,” it responded. “Have you?”

“Probably not,” he sighed. “Will you come with me while I continue?”

“Can you imagine that?”

He smiled and began walking again. “I guess I can.” They journeyed in silence for a while. But try as he might, the horizon didn’t seem to come any closer. Jaskier groaned loudly; he really should have guessed that there was another mystery to that. "Hey, you!" he shouted at the sky. "Coram Agh Tera, can you hear me? Wasn't I done with the nightmares?"

No response.

Well, almost none. "He really is an idiot," Valdo-larkspur mocked. "The sky talks as little as the trees."

Jaskier chuckled and raised his finger. "For the record, I knew you'd say that."

"Alright, braggart, don't flatter yourself," Jaskier-larkspur joined in.

"That, too," Jaskier said but the two of them didn't hear him, already too engrossed in a discussion about some trivial nonsense. 

'Alright, focus, Jaskier,' he told himself again. He had been forcing the brain fog from his mind entirely too often in the near past; it was getting harder and harder every time. And the noise of two bickering _idiots_ behind him didn't make it any easier. On the contrary, with all the distractions he could already feel the fidgety-ness approaching. 

'Ughh.' He'd never figure it out at this rate. 

What Jaskier didn't see, of course, was that he already had done so a rather long time ago. But like I said, mortals are, first and foremost, fundamentally blind. Their imagination reaches only as far as the horizon, even that of a poet as accomplished as Jaskier.

In hindsight, his blindness was truly a blessing. If he had discovered that there was absolutely no need for him to brave the latter stages of his nightmares, his rage might have been sufficient to shake him from his slumber. And then where would we have been?

So, he had no choice but to figure out the mystery that was no mystery at all all over again.

"Could you two _shut up_?" he snarled at the larkspurs. "If you're not going to help me, you can at least be quiet!"

"Well, someone got off on the wrong foot," Valdo-larkspur quipped.

"Yeah," Jaskier-larkspur agreed. "And for the record, we did help you. We gave you instructions. It's not our fault if you're too much of a fool to follow them."

Jaskier frowned. "Fool?" he breathed. ' _And when they’re gone the fools remain,_

_A garden grows with no sustain._ '

"Hey!" the buttercup complained. "You shouldn't be so mean to him. He's doing his best."

"Oh, yeah?" the larkspurs taunted. "His best isn't very good then, huh?"

"Man, just leave him alone," the dandelion joined in and before he knew it, the four of them were arguing viciously. 

Jaskier paid them no mind. He glanced around warily, trying to parse out whatever 'no sustain' meant. It couldn't be anywhere around the lake, then, nor the lilac forest. The blue mountains were an option, but he didn't think it likely. 

' _Come descend into the sky._ ' 

He tipped his head up to the sky above. 'It's empty,' he realised. No sun. No clouds. No nothing. But descend into the sky? He couldn't imagine that. Could he?

A faint smile spread on his face. 

' _How to find my mighty throne?_

_The answer’s plain: you don’t._ '

"So, it was that simple, huh?" he said to no-one in particular as he stretched out a hand to touch the invisible barrier of the horizon, still impossibly far away. “The second turn to the right, is it?” he murmured and turned into the direction of the blue mountains, keeping one hand still on the skyline. 

"Well, would you look at that," a gruff voice said as the lark landed on his shoulder, "the weirdo actually knows how to follow instructions."

"You again," he deadpanned. "How did you get here?"

"I flew. Obviously."

"Obviously," Jaskier echoed stupidly.

"So," the lark said and picked at the feathers under its wing, "have you figured it out yet?"

He huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. "It's really quite easy, isn't it?"

"You tell me."

"Why," Jaskier said and closed his eyes, "you flip the world upside down. Obviously."

"Obviously," the lark replied stupidly.

Jaskier opened his eyes and as the sky stretched out beneath him. It was an easy thing for him to take a step. And another one. And then, let himself drift into that bright realm of uncertainty.

And so, he did.

He had already gotten quite far down into the sky when suddenly his descent was cut short. "The fuck?" he muttered. He took a few experimental steps to the left and right, eyeing the fog curling around his ankles warily. But try as he might, he couldn't descend any further. "Are we there yet?" he called up to the flowers that were still waiting on the surface.

"Almost," the lark replied, gliding down to him. "Just open the door."

"What door?" He could see nothing but orange sky. He turned into the direction he had come from and marched forward. He hit the door face-first. "Fuck!" he cursed, holding his nose that should be bleeding by all rights.

"You found it!" The flowers cheered from the ground. It was weird, seeing them hang from the ceiling like this. Or the ground. Whatever. This was already weird enough without wondering about semantics. 

Besides, he had more important stuff to do. Like opening an invisible door.

"Shit," he cursed, blindly scrabbling at the solid surface that had materialised out of thin air. "Is there a handle or something? A knob? Or— ah, _fuck_!" He turned the knob and immediately stumbled through, falling a solid foot before landing in soft powder snow. 

Jaskier groaned and turned onto his back, staring at the solid wooden door hovering in the air above a wintery garden. "Sure," he muttered and got to his feet with a resigned shrug. "Why not?" He started dusting off his clothes. "I'm already talking to birds and flowers, why not a door in a fucking—"

"Jaskier?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good times, right? :)  
> I hope you enjoyed this roller-coaster. If you did, feel free to leave a comment or come over to chat with me on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) to tell me what you think!


	5. Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has finally reached the garden, but so many questions still remain: Where is Geralt? How will he get them both home? And who the hell is Wade?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I lied. I like this chapter just as much as the last. There's a lot of poetry in here, I hope that's your thing!

Jaskier froze mid-movement. “Oh,” he said quietly, relishing in the sound of the familiar voice. ‘Is this a dream?’ he wondered. Well, of course it was, but that was beside the point. Slowly, he turned around. "There you are," he breathed, "Geralt."

The witcher stood before him in all his glory. Or something like that. He looked… weird. Healthy enough for sure, no bandaged broken bones, no bruises, no nothing. But still, his appearance was worrying to say the least. He did not wear any shoes for starters, despite the feet-thick layer of snow in the garden. Somehow, that was the least concerning aspect of his state. No, Jaskier was much more preoccupied with the fact that Geralt's hair was not only loose, but also soft and clean. And the fact that he didn't wear any black. No, he was wearing _white_ of all colours. Long, white robes, and golden jewellery; bracelets and anklets and delicate chains around his neck. It was... pretty, he supposed. Pretty and oh-so-very-wrong.

"I found you," Jaskier whispered, barely believing his eyes. "I actually found you. Oh, Geralt!" He ran and launched himself at his witcher. A delighted little noise escaped him when Geralt actually indulged him for a moment, holding him close, before pushing him away again.

"Jaskier," he said sternly, "what the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, obviously," he replied, mechanically checking his witcher for injuries. "You didn't think I was going to let you hide here until millennia after my death, did you— Geralt, what are you even _wearing_?"

"They gave them to me," Geralt grumbled. "They said they wouldn't have me wear anything but the finest silks during my... stay here. They don't want their... priest dressed in rags, they said."

"Their priest?" Jaskier laughed nervously. "Geralt, whatever are you talking about?"

"The deity that governs this realm and keeps me here," he explained and frowned deeply. "Apparently, I am their priest now. They didn't tell me their name, they just said I had to figure it out myself."

Jaskier had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling. Geralt's signature scowl looked a lot more like a positively adorable pout in white robes and silky curling hair. 'Oh, he's cute,' he realised, not for the first time.

"Well, worry not, dear witcher," he tried to reassure him, "for I will get you out of here in no time. I brought some frie-uh." He turned around to where the door had been with the flowers right above it. Nothing. Not even the lark was anywhere to be seen. "They were right here. Where are they?"

The chuckle that crept up to them seemed to come from all sides at once. Jaskier twirled around, in hopes of locating the speaker. "They cannot enter," a velvety voice purred into his ear, "into the centre," a ghostly hand caressed his cheek, "of my domain. Outside they will remain."

The creature rose from the fog curling around their legs a few feet away from them; a slender figure thrice as large as any man made of mist, snow, dim light, and shadows intertwining. An agonised groan spilt from Geralt's mouth as he slowly dropped to his knees, his legs trembling as if he was trying to fight the motion but couldn't help but comply.

"Wade?" Jaskier asked sceptically and ignored Geralt's splutter. Because if _that_ was Wade, the flowers definitely could've warned him; he was not prepared for... that. Jaskier did his best to focus his vision on them—stubborn as always. But it was difficult, to say the least, akin to staring directly at the sun. As if he wasn't supposed to perceive them with his own eyes—which, of course, he wasn't. What mortal can hope to gaze at a god?

None, is the easy answer, obviously. They go mad if they do so too long. But this bard had to be half-mad already, for he couldn’t bring himself to look away. The robes they wore were quite similar to Geralt's, long and white and flowing. Their hair was unbound as well, though much longer than his witcher's, tumbling down to their feet in raven curls and barely concealing the grey mass of their chest; the only part of their body that did not seem to shift, shimmer, shine. In a way they resembled Yennefer with their fine chiselled features and their olive skin. The eyes were different, though, the piercing black of their irises was in no way less frightening.

“Wade, my old pal,” a gruff voice grumbled as the lark sat down on their shoulder. “How’s it hanging?”

They smiled benevolently albeit a bit confused. “It’s… hanging just fine, little friend of mine. How have you been? You’re cheerful, it seems.”

“Cheerful,” they parroted. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. You see that buffoon there?” All three of them turned to look at him. “A right pain in the arse, he was. Took him _ages_ to figure out your poem.”

"Oh...," he managed, barely keeping his shaking knees in check. He had absolutely no desire to kneel before his best friend's jailer. "You're.... beautiful," he stammered and while that was no ideal response either, he preferred it to the humiliation of kneeling.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Geralt cursed. "Now's not the time, bard."

Jaskier scoffed. As if he didn't know that himself. He had a witty remark ready on the tip of his tongue, but Wade was faster than him: "Be still, my dear, I'm greeting here a friend, it seems, who himself a flower deems."

"I do not deem, I named myself!" Jaskier replied, outraged. "Besides, would I be here if I were a flower? I've heard they are not welcome."

"Oh, and clever he is, too." A smile curled around their lips as they crouched down to get to Jaskier's eye level. "Who knew? It seems you have brought me quite a treat, priest. You should have told me, at least."

"Ngh," Geralt said, a pleading look in his eyes, looking back and forth between Jaskier and Wade. He could see the muscles of his jaw working, just like with Stregobor earlier. As if someone had willed him to shut up.

Rage boiled in Jaskier's stomach. "He did not bring me, for I belong to myself. As he does, for the record. He’s a person, and my friend, and I do not appreciate how you treat him."

"Silly mortal," Wade laughed and stood up straight, "he does not. He is mine to pay for the agony he brought."

"Pain? What pain? Stop speaking in riddles."

"Start listening instead, the answer's clear," Wade contested and straightened themself again. "There's a lovely home I had, but along came our witcher here. I did neither bad nor good, just dreams, not that he understood. He drew his sword and it brought war. So now he has to pay. He will stay."

"A drawn blade is hardly a war," Jaskier disagreed. "A lost home is hardly agony."

"Of course, you're too blind to see. It's not just a home I lost; there was a much higher cost."

He gnawed on his lip, waiting for Wade to elaborate. They didn't. The denizens of this strange world were not exactly forthcoming with information, much to Jaskier's chagrin. Well, in that case he had to be the direct one. Fancy that. "I have come to bring him home. Name the cost, I'll pay it in full."

Wade laughed, again, and for the first time Geralt spoke, too. "No!" he roared, " attempting to rise from his knees, but evidently held back by some invisible restraints. "No, Jaskier, you mustn't. I _chose_ this fate for mys-"

"Then you chose wrong!" Jaskier howled, seething with anger. "How could you?” he accused him. “There are people waiting for you. People who need you." The witcher kept infuriatingly silent. "Why?" he asked, his lower lip quivering dangerously. He was not about to cry, definitely not, but it was a close call. "Why on _earth_ would you do this to us? To yourself?"

"They wanted an immortal priest," Geralt said simply.

The deity hummed at that, combing their fingers through Geralt's hair. "It's true. I keep him here for his immortality. A priest who won't leave my side."

"You're immortal?"

He shrugged. "Immortal enough. Still have a couple of centuries to go, a couple of millennia with their help. I had no choice. It was me or..."

Ciri. Yennefer. Yes, Jaskier could see how a Child of Elder Blood or a sorceress might be a fitting replacement for someone as long-lived as Geralt. And of course, he hadn't wanted to jeopardise their safety. Of course, he'd preferred to stay himself. He loved them after all.

His eyelids fluttered shut. 'And I love Geralt.' He couldn't leave him to this fate. He couldn't— He couldn't. He had to get him out of there. 'Whatever the cost.'

"I see," he whispered and turned to Wade. "I suppose my soul would be no fitting— Hang on a moment." This whole looking up to the deity thing wasn't really doing it for him. That caused horrible cricks in the neck; netherworld or not, he sure as hell didn't want to deal with that. Once he had grown in size to match the god, he continued: "I suppose my soul would be no fitting recompense?"

The deity blinked at him in surprise but nothing beat Geralt's look on his face: "Did you- did you just _grow yourself_?" the witcher spluttered.

"Of course, I did," Jaskier replied, just as confused as the other two. "Didn't you know that anything is possible here?" Those were the rules of the netherworld, right? He could do whatever he could imagine. _Right?_

After a beat of silence, Wade laughed. "I see you are divine, too," they said delightedly. "Lucky me, that makes us two!"

"What?" Jaskier spluttered. "That's nonsense! I am no god, just a man."

"Just a man? I know none of my children's blood flows through your veins, but you're a poet, it's the same. Still, there must be more to you."

"There is not," he insisted.

"No elf, no fae?"

"No."

"No treachery at play?"

"If I say so."

"And what, man, is it that you brought here?"

"A lute."

"Why? Is it for me to hear?"

"It's for me to play."

"You say there's no fae blood in you; with my eyes I see it's true. And yet, you speak as they do."

Jaskier scoffed. He had quite enough of that Wade's antics already. "I speak as I see fit. And I would appreciate it, for you to let us go."

They tilted their head to their side. "Interesting."

They blinked. 

The world shifted around him and Jaskier felt the sudden urge to puke.

He had regained his composure just fast enough to see Wade take a seat on a towering stone throne, Geralt kneeling at his side. Another blink and a similar, though much smaller chair appeared right beneath Jaskier's behind. "You're not afraid of me," Wade noted.

"Why should I be?"

"Because I am a god. Because you're a coward and a fool. Because I made your friend my tool." They smiled viciously. "In case you forgot."

"I did not. But if I'm a coward and a fool, so are you. You imagined this garden, too. I cannot be found."

"I grew this garden from barren ground, do not teach me about its laws," they snarled. "You're bathetic, _flower_ , more than I ever was."

"Are we here to talk or to insult each other?" Jaskier laughed. "I'm Oxenfurt studied and trained, _prat_ , why do you even bother? Smear poems are my bread and butter."

"A brat is what you are, the worst I've met so far. So, here's a tip for you: do not bite off more than you can chew."

He crossed his arms defiantly and risked a glance down at Geralt. The witcher was following their conversation with a deep frown, his eyes flicking back and forth between them. For just a moment he wondered how many quick-witted rhymes ago they had lost him. Still, he had a mission: "I did not come here to trade puny slander, let us not meander. I want a bargain. And I will not ask again."

Wade looked at him bemusedly for a moment, then they threw their head back and roared with laughter. "You've got guts, I'd hate to see them spilt. I like your little threats. You want to bargain before you wilt? Let's."

With a flick of their wrist, the air around Geralt flickered as he was pushed further away. Jaskier could see the invisible walls rising around him, could see the horror on Geralt's face, see him scrambling to his feet, banging on the barriers with both his fists and inaudible shouts. "I'm sorry," Jaskier whispered. 'I'm not,' he knew.

A sly smile spread on the deity's face as they leaned on the armrest and rested their chin in their palm. "Go on," they invited him with a grand gesture. "Talk."

"I already told you," Jaskier sighed, exhaustion showing plain on his face. "I ask you to let him go."

"And why should I do so?"

"Please," he begged, "name a cost. I'll replace what you have lost."

"Hm," they said contemplatively, thrumming their fingers against their cheek as they stared off into the distance. Suddenly, their gaze focused on him again, the expression on their face softening. "You love him," they said gently. Still, it felt like a slap in the face.

Jaskier nodded shakily.

"You might be a coward and a fool, yet you achieved what few can do. You prevailed where many fell, shouldering your burden, and his as well. Aren't you exhausted, dear? You could stay here, the both of you. I'd take good care of you."

He shook his head defiantly. "I'd rather have you take care of me alone and let him return to those he loves."

The deity laughed. "How do you wield words so prettily if you are too blind to see what's right in front of your nose? I can do only one of those."

Jaskier frowned, not understanding. "What—"

The deity paid him no heed and kept on talking: "From god to god, I have a bargain for you, man, listen closely to what I say: win my game, and you both walk free. Lose, and you belong to me." They spread their arms wide. "What's your answer, then? Aye or nay?"

Jaskier looked at them, studying their face as closely as he could. 'That sounds almost too good to be true.' Still, there was no trace of betrayal or deceit. "If I lose, only I belong to you?" he made sure.

"That is true."

"You're asking what I choose, at a game I cannot lose?" He laughed hoarsely. "I say deal."

"A handshake's the seal." Jaskier grabbed the offered hand and they grinned widely, dangerously. "May the better dreamer win."

Jaskier returned the grin that was almost a snarl. "Let's begin."

"He should listen, too, I think," the deity said and Jaskier nodded. 

With a flick of their wrist, the walls around Geralt shattered and a roaring scream rolled over them: "Let him go! No, Jaskier, this is madness."

He stood and turned to him with a bow and a sad smile. "I have won your freedom already," he explained quietly, "that is all I came here to do. Now, please, dear, be quiet, so I can barter for mine."

"Aren't you two _divine_?" the deity cooed.

"Do not worry about our divinity," Jaskier told them sharply. "Worry about me."

They snorted disbelievingly and crossed their arms in front of their chest.

Jaskier imitated him. "So," he challenged, "what are we playing?"

"Ah, my dear flower, you're in for a treat," they purred and rose to their feet, still looming over Jaskier, "for you've met your rival you cannot beat. Welcome!" They bowed down to him. "To the Game of Fools. Here are the rules: One!"

A giant engraved stone slab slammed into the ground a few feet from the ground. "I start with a song. And you respond. It has to be your own, one that is just yours alone. Two!"

A second slab joined the first. "You must not speak out of turn. The speaking time is earned. Three!"

A third slab. "You cannot utter a single word that's already been heard. A song already sung does not belong." They whirled around to him. "Understood?"

"Yes."

"Good." They bowed with a deep flourish. "With these rules, I'm sure you'll complete your goal."

Wait, what? Jaskier's head snapped up. "Goal?!" his voice was shriller than he had intended to. "What goal?"

"Listen closely and you'll see. Tell me, where else the fun would be." They flashed him a bright smile and said jovially: "I start. Take a seat and listen close. And if you're not quite as verbose, well," they chuckled, "don't take it too hard."

Jaskier scoffed, unable to resist the sudden urge to kneel in the snow next to Geralt. He was about to tell them that they obviously had no idea who they were dealing with. Not quite as verbose? 'I am Jaskier of Oxenfurt, Viscount to Lettenhove. I have written more songs and poems in thirty years than most poets do in their whole life. Not quite as verbose _my ass._ ' But something told him that breaking the second rule already would end badly for him.

"Jaskier," Geralt hissed leaning over to him. Had he grown too? Or had they shrunken? A quick glance around told him that the latter was the case, the thrones looming up over the three of them impossibly tall. "Jaskier!" he hissed again.

"Shush," he answered. The deity was about to begin with their song, Jaskier couldn't risk missing it.

Still, the witcher was persistent. "Do you really think this is a good idea? Didn't you hear them? You cannot beat them."

He closed his eyes praying for patience. 'I know all of that,' he thought bitterly, 'and this is not really confidence-instilling.'

Thankfully, Wade began their performance, thus keeping Geralt from any other stupid comments:

" _Men die, it’s true, but so do Sounds._

_And when they do, there’s no_

_Formality, no-one around._

_No-one will watch them go._ "

They had already reached the end of the first stanza when Jaskier realised belatedly that he probably should be counting syllables and lines and rhymes. 'Shit,' he cursed silently. 'So much for a good start.'

" _A Sound, it dies with no last song,_

_No elegy or chant._

_A final sigh and then it’s gone._

_With efforts Men are scant._

_A Sound dies with reminiscence,_

_Remembrance dies with God,_

_A God’s death is with reverence,_

_A Prayer’s death’s in naught._

_In Nothingness all endings lie_

_When no-one’s left to dream_

_With the Last Poet Earth will die_

_The Last to write its theme._

_Men die, it’s true, but so do Gods._

_From mortals they all stem._

_Finds one a Priest against all odds,_

_It’s a new life for them._ "

Wade finished with a flourish and looked at him expectantly. "Well?" they asked, entirely too smug and self-satisfied for Jaskier's liking. "What do you say, flower, poet, bard? I hope this first challenge isn't too hard?"

"Too hard?" Jaskier scoffed. "What do you take me for, an amateur?"

They hummed with a smirk that betrayed that, _yes_ , that was exactly what they took him for. 'The audacity!' Jaskier would teach them— He wanted to get up, but Geralt caught him by the wrist. "Jaskier, are you sure?"

He snorted. "Please, Geralt, apparently we're doing _elegies_!" Of all poetic forms to choose from, they had elected the most dull, uninspired, and ordinary of them all. With a common metre at that! He hadn't done that since his pre-Oxenfurt days! "It's as if they're _trying_ to bore me."

"Or bait you," he warned. "Don't fall for it, bard. You're too smart for that."

"Why, Geralt, is that a compliment?" he trilled. "I never thought I'd see the day."

He huffed with feigned annoyance that hadn't fooled Jaskier for _decades_. 

"Don't worry about it, I know just the one. And rest assured that it is a greater work of art than _that_." He gestured vaguely into the deity's general direction.

"Silly mortal," Wade chided. "The true dreamer is not who crafts art of the dramatic but of the mundane. It's your turn."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, alright. You want to hear an elegy, too?"

"Are you trying to tell me you don't have one prepared?" They leaned forward with a sly smile. "Do not insult me, _Jaskier_."

"I wouldn't _dream_ of it," he ribbed, and walked over to take their place.

He took a deep breath. They were right, of course, he had an elegy prepared. It hadn't started out like that; the first stanza had come to him many years ago. But then it had just kept growing. The thing was— He glanced over to Geralt, who looked at him intently. The _thing_ was, that his witcher was not meant to ever hear it.

He wet his lips with his tongue. Nothing to be done about that now; so, he started reciting:

" _In my time I have known a host of men;_

_Great kings and knights who met a tragic end._

_And yet not one of them was greater than_

_Geralt of Rivia, my beloved friend._ "

He kept his eyes trained firmly on the ground; he couldn't bear to face Geralt now. Still, he felt his eyes burning on his skin. Jaskier felt naked all over again, even though he was still wearing clothes. It was almost worse.

" _The core of men is shift and change._

_He faced and braved the Trials and Trail._

_For that men called him monster, mutant, strange,_

_A butcher, a witcher, a hero to hail._ "

He could hear the nigh silent gasp that escaped Geralt and his eyes snapped up involuntarily. He expected to see Geralt offended, outraged even. Instead, he just looked confused.

" _For two decades I journeyed at his side,_

_A fragment of the century he’s seen._

_No words can illustrate this witcher’s might;_

_He’s the most noble knight there’s ever been._

_He was not known to be a man of words,_

_His Path, it was a lonely road to walk._

_And yet he did speak, even jest of sorts,_

_'twas his hands, his deeds, his eyes that did the talk._ "

Jaskier closed his eyes and allowed himself to get lost in the words he spoke into existence. It felt like flying. It felt like floating.

" _His pride’s his unrelenting amity,_

_His light a guiding star to follow_

_For us, his pack, his friends, his family;_

_Alone without him we are left hollow._ "

He ended his poem with a tiny gasp, just as it was meant to be. He gnawed on his lip. It felt... wrong. Unfinished.

He did not know what it was that kept him talking, nor did he know where the words came from. Suddenly, they were there as if he'd always known them. Maybe he had.

" _Was it just him who fell? Or did we both_

_That morn find our demise in that chateau?_ " he whispered, his words scarcely more than a breath. As if he wasn't quite sure if they were meant to be heard.

" _For, though by chance, our strings of fate were tied_

_He's gone, and I am dead with all my woe._ "

When Jaskier looked up again, all he saw were two wide golden eyes, staring at him in shock. He suddenly felt the need to throw up. "I'm sorry," he wailed. "I'm sorry, Geralt, I shouldn't have—"

"No," the witcher interrupted him and evaded his gaze. "'S good." Jaskier scowled. Was he... blushing? That couldn't be, surely. Witchers couldn't blush, Geralt had told him so himself. Surely, he had seen wrong. Surely, a quirk of the netherworld.

"You have done well," the deity decreed. "You truly are a poet, I can tell. There were worse foes I have faced. Yet, such a simple deed shan't be overly praised. Another test is due. A sonnet, is that something you can do?"

Jaskier scoffed and crossed his arms. "Honestly, Wade, do you even know what Oxenfurt is? I have read and interpreted sonnets until my eyes bled. I could write one in my sleep."

They raised their eyebrows. "Then what are you waiting for?"

"I thought you would go first," he said warily. He might not understand much about this world, but he _was_ an expert on tales and fables, and if there was one thing, they all agreed upon, it was that you did not, under any circumstances, break the rules of a contract with a supernatural being. Circumvent them via rather liberal interpretations? Sure. Break them? Not in a thousand years. "You said so yourself."

"I said it before, I'll say it once more: you're a clever one." They snapped their fingers and Jaskier watched the rule rearrange themselves on the stone slab. "There, it's gone. Now let's continue with the fun," they clapped their hands excitedly. "Carry on."

"Alright, alright," he muttered and tugged at the collar of his doublet. A sonnet they had said? That was not an easy choice. Not for lack of suitable poems, of course. Rather the opposite was the case.

As much as he hated the rigid rules Oxenfurt had—quite literally—beaten into him, he had to admit that he had a... certain fondness for the sonnet. Alright, _that_ was an understatement. He loved sonnets, loved the challenge to tell a story in fourteen short verses. He had written dozens, hundreds, _myriads_ , only a fragment of which had even seen the light of day.

While he rejected Valdo Marx' notion that he was "pandering to the tastes of the masses" and thus produced inferior lyrics, there was at least _some_ truth to it. Even he couldn't deny that his jaunty jigs and breezy ballads were much better received than poems that relied on finer nuances than raucous bawling. Such as sonnets, for example.

And while he had a travel companion for most of the time, Geralt had no sense for literature either. To him, a ballad sounded just like any other, and after one pitiful attempt from his part to try and introduce his witcher to lyrics without any music that had ended in Geralt rolling around on the floor howling with laughter, Jaskier had decided to postpone the re-introduction. Into the far, _far_ future. 

But all of that still didn’t keep him from writing his poems. Nothing in this world or any other could. That was precisely why he wrote them at all, because he was so full of words that threatened to spill over and ruin _everything_. They had to go _somewhere_.

Long story short, there were about two dozen notebooks collecting dust in some Oxenfurt archive filled with sonnets about a certain witcher, that would never be read by anyone but a sentimental, foolish bard who had tried and failed to process his desperate yearning in poetry. But which should he choose?

"What is it, flower?" Wade asked, their hand in Geralt's hair again. He wished it would fall off. The deity just laughed. "That's beyond your power. You are just here to recite a poem. Go on."

Jaskier bared his teeth at him and launched into the first sonnet that came to his mind:

" _A witcher is most valiant a knight_

_He’s armed with silver, magic, and with steel._

_He faces any monster without fright_

_For conscience’s sake and not just for the deal._ "

It wasn't his best, probably, but it had to do. With every unbidden touch, every condescending word, his anger grew more. His anger and his determination to get Geralt out of there as soon as possible.

" _A witcher is a gruesome fiend and vile;_

_No mercy left in his mutated heart._

_He bathes in virgin blood and monster bile,_

_Nothing that sets his kind and prey apart._

_So, now you ask which of my tales is true._

_The answer’s plain, my friend, they all are lies._

_With words and tales bards build the world anew,_

_But life’s no simple sketch in blacks and whites._

_A witcher is the commonest of men;_

_We all are beasts and saints in fortune’s plan._ "

Wade only nodded thoughtfully. "A beautiful work," they decreed, "and seldom have I heard one that held more truth. You're wise, despite your youth."

"I am not so youthful for a man," he admitted sheepishly. "Nor am I wise. I have just seen much of the world."

"Do not sell yourself short," they chided and strode over to take his place, "we all know you're not the humble sort. With your tongue as sharp as a dagger you like to brag and swagger. Let's see if it serves you well. I've got my own poem to tell."

Jaskier ducked his head to hide his smile as he sat down next to Geralt. 'Pity,' he thought. 'Had we met under another circumstance I might've even liked them.' Alas, they had not, and so Jaskier was morally obligated to despise every word that spilt from their mouth. 'Just like the good old Oxenfurt days.'

If only it were a task as easily completed now as back then. The problem was, however, that Wade was _good_. They were a good performer, for a start, one who you couldn't help but follow with your eyes. Their voice was loud and clear, rising and falling at just the right parts. And the poetry. _Gods,_ the poetry. It was just out of this realm.

" _Illusion, vision, vagary; the style_

_Is not what makes the dream a lovely thing._

_Instead, it’s joy, it’s freedom, it’s a smile._

_But still does reverie deep sorrow bring._ "

Jaskier wanted to hate the poem. He really did. But how could he when his heart ached with every word, when his eyes filled with tears, when he found himself mouthing along to the words to remember them, recite them himself in the future? He just couldn't.

" _The terrors of the night most humans fear;_

_They pray, they beg, they curse to no avail,_

_They toss, they turn, they scream for all to hear,_

_They try to fight and cannot help but fail._

_What makes a dream celestial and sweet?_

_What makes a nightmare grievous, ghastly, grim?_

_All fantasy grows from the unchanged seed,_

_Each one alike, the former’s perfect twin._

_Are all the dreamers blind? It is a shame,_

_Not one sees that both are one and the same._ "

Jaskier was clapping before he knew what was happening and Wade bowed graciously. "Jaskier," Geralt hissed sharply.

"What?" he replied innocently. "It was a good performance," he insisted. "I won't forget my manners just because I am fighting for my life."

"Thank you kindly," they said with a smile. "I truly am glad that it is to your liking. It's been a long time since I had not only an audience, but found myself among friends."

"We are not friends," Geralt growled. "Neither he nor I want to be here."

Their face fell. "And yet you both sought me out. That can't be my fault, no doubt."

"Just get on with the song!" the witcher grumbled.

"Oh, _Geralt_ , I'm so proud of you," they purred, "you're already rhyming, too!"

He huffed an annoyed breath and scooted closer to Jaskier, leaning against his side. "You know," he whispered, "they've got a point."

"Shut up," he grunted, his pout appearing again. After a moment the witcher groped around on the floor until he found Jaskier's hand. He held on tight and Jaskier almost didn't hear his confession: "I missed you. And I'm glad you're here."

Jaskier's throat tightened, and, _oh_ , apparently the clear skies rained salt water in the netherworld. "You're—" He cleared his throat. "You're welcome," he managed without sounding too much like he was crying. Which he wasn't, for the record. Crying, that was. Nope, definitely not, not him.

Geralt squeezed his hand, and Jaskier really would have loved to continue this conversation, but Wade was talking again: "One last round, bard, one last chance to complete your task. I hope that's not too much to ask?"

"Some task that is," he huffed. "I don't even know what I have to do!" They didn't even dignify that with an answer and he sighed. "I do not have a choice, do I?"

"Do you still insist to leave with him?"

"I do."

"Then you have to win."

"I will. Name your challenge, Wade, I will meet it."

"So be it," they bowed their head. "For the last round let us compete with poetry at its most complete, most accomplished form: a ballad."

"Of course," he muttered. After a short moment he added, because he couldn't resist: "And what might satisfy your noble palate?"

"A ballad, bard, and both of you can go. A ballad to—" They faltered. "A ballad. One that comes from you."

Jaskier eyed them warily, but nothing in their face betrayed that they had just stumbled over their words. Well, it could happen to the best of them. Carefully weighing his words, he said: "That I can do." He made an inviting gesture. "After you."

"If you wish so," they extended their arms and a lute appeared out of thin air. For a few moments, the garden was completely silent, both him and Geralt waiting with bated breath. Then, they began to sing: 

" _There once was a maid as fair as summer sun_

_She loved to dance to the bards’ songs._

_She loved to laugh, play, ride, and over hills run._

_Her kindness’s famed in all kingdoms._ "

Jaskier gulped. The verses were joyful enough, but he knew enough about the art of ballads that he realised with the first string being plucked that this song would make him cry again. It was a heart-wrenchingly beautiful melody that made pure adoration mingle with bitter jealousy in his mouth. He knew whatever he wrote in the future, it could never be as good as what he was just listening to.

" _Though her laugh was bright there was something she missed._

_A part of her heart beyond gates._

_So, one day she ran away into the wilderness._

_Her fortune, a gift to the fates._

_This is the poor dreamer’s lament_

_A story of freedom, found fortune, and woe._

_This is how the maid’s fable went:_

_She got what she craved, but was sad even so._ "

He gnawed on his lower lip, not daring to even glance sideways at Geralt. This was a sentiment he understood only too well. 'And yet,' he thought, 'here we are.'

" _The maid wandered aimlessly through the lands,_

_Wherever her heart’s wish led her._

_She was free though many knights asked for her hand_

_She said: “Thank you, but no, my good Sir.”_

_In the end the maid’s heart led her to a garden_

_Filled with daisies, roses, and more._

_The Gods told her: “You’re now its patron and warden.”_

_She dreamt it more grand than before._

_This is the poor dreamer’s lament_

_A story of freedom, found fortune, and woe._

_This is how the maid’s fable went:_

_She got what she craved, but was sad even so._

_Though beauty surrounds her, no flower’ll replace_

_The joy that comes with humankind._

_In her lonely garden she longs for an embrace_

_And all that she left behind._

_She is forced to wait until the end of time,_

_Alone she grows still on her throne._

_All the while waiting for the gentlest rhyme,_

_The dream to melt a heart of stone._

_This is the poor dreamer’s lament_

_A story of freedom, found fortune, and woe._

_This is how the maid’s fable went:_

_She got what she craved, but was sad even so._ "

Jaskier's breath hitched as the last note faded out, only for the deity to pluck at the strings again:

" _This is my pathetic lament;_

_I got what I craved, but am sad even so._ "

His mouth formed a silent 'O' as he saw that the deity's cheeks were just as glistening with tears as his own had to be. Before his mind could even follow up, he was already on his feet, only held back by Geralt's iron grip on his wrist.

"Jaskier," he said, softer than he ever had, softer than he had any right to.

"Yes?" he breathed.

"I believe in you." And with that the anchor tethering him to his witcher's side was gone and he stood in front of the deity.

"Did you like my song?" they asked, almost hopefully.

Jaskier envied them for their dry-dreamt cheeks. "I did. I—" Slowly, he extended his hand and put it on their arm. It hurt. It hurt so much, so much worse than the trials, so much— 'This is it,' he thought, 'This is how I die.' Still, he didn't let go. "I'm sorry," he gritted out, "no-one deserves to be lonely."

They stared at him with wide eyes and jerked back suddenly. "Sing your song," they commanded.

He blinked.

There was a lute in his hands and the pressing urge to sing building in his gut. This time, Jaskier didn't really have a choice. He could count the number of his ballads that no-one had ever heard on one hand, and, well, there was a reason why they only existed in the privacy of his head. Either they weren't finished yet, or— Or.

Truly, he had no choice at all. A work in progress had to do, then. He took a deep breath and started to sing:

“ _Peace in our lands is of short-lived supply,_

_Soldiers and monsters both make children cry._

_That’s why the gods let the witchers be born;_

_Demons they slay in foul and human form._

_Geralt of Rivia, the noblest of all_

_Will slay the basilisk haunting your hall._

_Good folk of Aedirn, you asked for his aid,_

_Lo and behold, the White Wolf brought his blade._

_Armed with a mirror he evaded the the glare,_

_The fangs and the maw, he would not die._

_Although the witcher did not need to beware._

_He’s sculpted like granite, he cannot petrify._ ”

Jaskier faltered. ‘Ah,’ he thought as he blushed furiously. ‘Right, I hadn’t edited that yet.’ He winced, expanding his interlude. Well, the child had fallen into the well already, he could also follow through now:

“ _The White Wolf did not wait, he took the risk,_

_He set out to slay the vile basilisk._

_Quickly, the White Wolf put an end to this farce_

_With his swords, signs, and his great muscled... arms._ ”

Jaskier winced. Not what he had scribbled down drunkenly during the victory celebrations afterwards, but he sure as hell wouldn’t praise his best friend’s behind in front of some deity and Geralt himself. Contrary to popular belief, he did have _some_ dignity.

_His silver blade slashed through the vicious beast,_

_His silver hair’s just as glorious at least._

_The basilisk knew its demise was nigh._

_Both of us vanquished with the flex of a thigh._

_Armed with a mirror he evaded the the glare,_

_The fangs and the maw, he would not die._

_Although the witcher did not need to beware._

_He’s sculpted like granite, he cannot petrify._

_Armed with a mirror he evaded the the glare,_

_The fangs and the maw, he would not die._

_Although the witcher did not need to beware._

_He’s sculpted like granite, he cannot petrify._ ”

The last notes of his ballad faded away. He already dreaded the conversation with Geralt to come, barely raising his gaze when he turned to him. 

He blinked.

The deity loomed over him thrice as tall as any man, shadows, mist and snow swirling. "You cheated," they growled like roaring thunder.

This time, Jaskier couldn't resist the need to drop to his knees. "No," he whimpered. "No, please, I didn't!"

That, however, didn't satisfy them. "That was not your ballad," they growled. Blinding white lightning flared right around the still unmoving grey area of their chest.

He whimpered and ducked his head. "Yes, it was," he tried to defend himself. "I wrote every note and line myself."

"It was not your right ballad," they insisted. "You cheated. You lost."

Thunder roared. Lightning flared.

He blinked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uhh, too much poetry? I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not. I hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing. As always, leave a comment and a kudo or come over to chat with me on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if you liked it!


	6. Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has lost the Game of Fools. Before he says goodbye forever, he asks for one last favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY! I know it was mean to end the last chapter like that, but I couldn't resist. I won't keep you waiting any longer, here's the second to last chapter:

'It truly is the softest silk,' he thought as the white robes settled on his body. 'The chains are a bit heavy, though I suppose shackles are meant to be.' Maybe he could bargain to be relieved of those later. He had a lot of time, now.

He blinked his eyes open to see he had traded places with Geralt. He was kneeling at the deity's feet while the witcher stood before him; bloodied and bruised, his hair a matted mess, clad in black leather. "Jaskier," he whispered, disbelievingly.

Slowly, a smile spread on his face. "There," he said softly. "That's better."

"What- no! What is happening?" Furious, he turned to the deity, all the docile tranquillity that now settled in Jaskier's mind gone, replaced with outrage, disbelief, fear. "We made a deal," his voice was quivering uncharacteristically. "You said you'd leave them be as long as I'd stay. You said you wouldn't lay a finger on him!"

There was something strange about Geralt's statement, something that Jaskier's clouded mind couldn't quite grasp. "It's alright," he promised just as the deity answered: "We did. Until he offered a better one. I might be a god, but he chose this fate and there is nought that I can do. Just as little as you. There is no entity stronger than the own free will of a man. He will stay until the day that he completes the task."

Jaskier blinked slowly. That might be the most the deity had said to him since his arrival. "Task?" he echoed weakly. When had talking become so hard? "What task?"

"Funny that you should ask." They carded their fingers through his hair and he couldn't help but lean into the touch. It still burned, though not as much as when he had touched them before. "I already told you," they soothed. "Follow the rules, that's all you have to do."

"Free will or not," Geralt growled, "I am not about to accept this. It is my own free will to say that I am staying. Let him go."

"I can't," they answered simply, "and I shan't. Your soul belongs to me no more, that's what he is paying for. It was won, fair and square. You can go, he'll be fine within my care."

"No!" he insisted and stepped forward, one hand already going for the sword.

They held up their hand in warning. "Go ahead and draw your sword," they said, almost sounding amused, "and you'll end up where you were before. With no-one to save you anymore. Your freedom was won, so go on: leave."

Helpless, Jaskier watched as the witcher growled and narrowed his eyes and the deity raised their hand, lighting curling around it. He had to do something. "Wait!" he blurted and leapt to his feet before he even knew what he was doing. Both of them turned to him. "I— I should be granted a favour, I believe."

Geralt's brows knit together in confusion, but the deity only chuckled. "And why is that?"

"For putting up a fight."

They crossed their arms defiantly, but at least the lightning stopped. "Alright. Ask your favour, then."

"I won't see him again," it wasn't a question. "This is no realm that welcomes him. I— May I say my farewell? There's... one last truth I need to tell."

Suddenly, their expression softened. "Be my guest."

Carefully, and with shaking knees Jaskier inched towards Geralt. He was half expecting the deity to withdraw their permission halfway there, but then he was standing next to his witcher and being pulled into a tight embrace. He almost forgot to breathe and was gasping for air once Geralt released him again. Though that might also be attributed to the sobs shaking his body.

"I'm sorry," he whispered quietly enough that he hoped that the deity couldn't hear them. Those were very slim hopes, however.

"Don't be," Geralt lied, "it's not your fault."

Jaskier's heart clenched. 'Only that it is.' It was him who had been foolish enough to enter into this world. Who had been foolish enough to challenge a god. Foolish enough to think he could win. 'It was always going to end like this.'

"Jaskier," he said insistently, "Jaskier, look at me." Slowly, he raised his gaze to comply. "I won't leave you here to your demise. I will come back for you and I will get you out of here. You know that right, you—"

"No," he shook his head adamantly. "No, Geralt, please don't—"

But the witcher didn't hear him, and if he did, the selective deafness stroke again: "I won't let them take you away from me, do you understand that? You just need to be a bit patient, alright? Wait for me."

"I won't," he replied with a steadier voice than he would have thought possible.

"Jaskier—"

"Shh, Geralt." He put a finger over his witcher's lips to shut him up. "We don't have much time. Just once in your life I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?"

"Just—"

"Can you do that?" he asked again, more insistently this time. Geralt nodded slowly and Jaskier wet his lips with his tongue nervously. "When I came here, I was fully aware that this outcome was an option," he began explaining quietly. “Not my preferred one, of course, but an option nevertheless. I wouldn't have entered this world if I hadn't been willing to bear the consequences."

He breathed in and out shakily. "I am more than willing to stay if it means that you walk free. If you— If you want to help me, there's one thing you can do."

"Anything," Geralt said. It sounded so desperate that for one moment Jaskier could imagine that he knew the extent of such a promise. So desperate that for one moment he almost regretted what he had done.

'Focus,' he told himself. He was doing this for Geralt, after all. "I need you to wake up. I need you to go back to your sorceress and your child surprise, your brothers and your friends, all the people you love. And then—" He gulped. "And then I need you to forget about me. Do not come back. Do not bargain for my release. Do not go looking for a cure, for there is none. I will return when my time is done, and maybe if the fates are kind, you and I will meet again."

"But—"

"No buts, Geralt. If you have any respect for me and our friendship, do as I say. Don't you _dare_ waste what I just gave you. Don't you _dare_ trade your soul for mine again, don't you _dare_ waste your life with grief. Did I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"Good." Jaskier nodded, his whole body trembling. "Good. One more thing. There's something I... have for you. A parting gift, if you will. One last song, if you will have it."

"I... I will. Always."

Jaskier nodded and pulled him down to his knees with him. He'd rather do that in a position where he might not be in danger of collapsing spontaneously. His lute appeared in his hands, his fingers settling on the strings as if it was as natural as breathing. He plucked the first notes, breathed in and— hesitated.

"Fuck," he cursed quietly. 'I can't do it, I can't—' It was the one song he had written that never was supposed to be heard. The one song he had only dared to compose when he was overcome with heartache and grief, incapable of keeping all those feelings inside without combusting. The one song that was nowhere to be found, not a single line written on so much as a scrap. And now he was supposed to sing it to the last person who was ever supposed to hear it?

"Jaskier," Geralt said sheepishly, almost ashamed, "I lied."

That was enough to snap him out of his spiralling thoughts. "What?!" What on earth was that damned moron talking about now? Jaskier was having an existential crisis, thank you very much, and—

"I lied," he said again. "So many times. Your singing is no annoyance, no fillingless pie. I love it and I do not yet know how I shall lead a life without it. Without you. Please. Don't be afraid of me."

Somehow, that was all it took. "Never," he promised. He could only hope that Geralt knew the truth of that statement. From the first moment he had seen him in that shitty tavern in Posada, Jaskier could never imagine to be afraid of him, witcher or not. And how could he be? How could he fear a man as fiercely loyal and stubbornly kind as Geralt?

'I'm not afraid of you,' he wanted to tell him, but Geralt, as a witcher, as the Butcher of Blaviken, was feared by so many people. He couldn't allow him to believe for even a moment that Jaskier even thought about doing so himself. And so, there was nothing to be done but sing:

" _I found you when you were so lonely_

_And I was on my own as well._

_In spite of your nature, you took me in your heart,_

_Now I’ve got this story to tell._

_I could hear the song of our heartbeats._

_Within but an hour I knew_

_That I will love you ‘til the end of all time._

_Each day I fall for you anew._

_For you I’ll always wait_

_Although chance might tear our Paths asunder._

_Against the whims of fate,_

_I will wait while you wander._

_A monster is roaming the forest,_

_I laugh as I hear a wolf howl._

_No devil of hell is bloodcurdling or fright’ning,_

_They all fear the White Wolf’s growl._

_A demon they call you; I don’t care_

_‘bout that or if you love me._

_My heart’s yours to keep, for better or worse_

_Your side is where I choose to be._

_My friend, I’ll always wait_

_Although chance might tear our Paths asunder._

_Against the whims of fate,_

_I will wait while you wander._

_Your first laugh was brighter than sunshine._

_When you laughed I did nearly faint._

_But our life is not made of innocent pleasure,_

_Not this peaceful picture I paint._

_I’m cursed, for I fell for a wand’rer._

_Your Path is so ruthless and long._

_I’m twice cursed for my fate is that of a dreamer_

_I blink, and I turn, and you’re gone._

_My dear, I’ll always wait_

_Although chance might tear our Paths asunder._

_Against the whims of fate,_

_I will wait while you wander._

_Now I wander through the dark wasteland_

_At the hour of loneliness_

_No moon, star, or sun to cast but a mere beam_

_As I long for your soft caress._

_A wealth of truths I failed to confess_

_In all of the poems you’ll miss._

_The Path’s taking you far and farther afield_

_While I’m dreaming of your sweet kiss._

_My heart, I’ll always wait_

_Although chance might tear our Paths asunder._

_Against the whims of fate,_

_I will wait while you wander._

_I sob as I curl up on my cot._

_Without you my camp is too bare._

_My terror’s my pillow, despair is my blanket;_

_I’m wishing that you were still there._

_I fear this time you won’t come back here_

_You’ve fallen into the abyss._

_I wonder if I should have bid you farewell_

_With that accursed ill-fated kiss._

_My love, I’ll always wait_

_Although chance might tear our Paths asunder._

_Against the whims of fate,_

_I will wait while you wander._

_Dear heart, I’ll always wait._

_I swear I’ll always stay._ "

Jaskier gasped quietly as the song ended. His head spun and his breath came raggedly as if he had forgotten to breathe throughout his performance. Maybe he had. Still, he wiped at the tears on his cheeks, put on a brave smile and asked: "Well? How about a review? Three words or less."

"Hmm." Geralt was frowning deeply, his expression so clouded with a whirlwind of emotions that not even Jaskier had the slightest idea what was going on in his head. Then, finally, he said: "It's not true."

"What is not true?" he meant to ask. But before such words could leave his mouth, he was silenced by Geralt's lips. Taken aback by the sudden motion, he tensed up. 'Salty,' was his first thought, 'and wet.' Was Geralt crying, too? He could scarcely believe it. Geralt had told him witchers couldn't cry. But he'd also told him they couldn't blush, the liar.

A hand slipped into his hair, carding softly through it, while Geralt snaked an arm around his waist and— 'Oh,' he realised belatedly, 'Geralt is kissing me.' It took him a moment to process that shock before he remembered that kisses were supposed to be a two-man-act and that he should probably start kissing Geralt back.

'Great gods,' he thought, 'I _can_ kiss Geralt back!' With a desperate whine he let his lute drop to the ground, for once uncaring for the consequences—this was a paranormal netherworld that existed beyond what any mortal could grasp with its mind, after all, he doubted the lute would mind—and looped his arms around Geralt's neck to pull him in tight. Because after years of endlessly seemingly unrequited pining he was finally allowed to.

And now all he got was one farewell kiss.

After what felt like an eternity, they pulled apart. "It's not true," Geralt said again. "You make it sound like I don't love you as well, and that's not true. I love you, Jaskier. It scares me, but I do, more than you can imagine."

"Oh. I love you, too." He kissed him again. If only he had known that earlier. That would have changed _everything_. Only that it wouldn't have. Geralt still would have entered into the ruin. Jaskier still would have followed him to the netherworld. He still would have lost. They still would have been doomed to spend their lives apart.

"Your time is up," the deity commanded with a booming voice.

"I'm sorry," Jaskier said again. "Farewell, my love," he whispered and kissed him one last time. "Don't wait for me."

Thunder roared.

He blinked.

He found himself looking eye to eye at the deity, who stared down at their chest in disbelief. "Thank you," they whispered as if they couldn't quite understand what was going on either. Lightning cracked like a whip. They groaned and sank to one knee. Jaskier surged forward to keep them from falling, but he wasn't fast enough.

Thunder roared. Wind surged up, mingling with the darkness receding from their body.

He blinked.

The shackles disappeared around his wrists and fell to the ground. "What—"

"Jaskier!" Geralt yelled, trapped on the other side of an impenetrable wall of storm clouds and lightning. "What's happening?"

"It hurts," they whimpered curling in on themself. "Please, it hurts so bad."

"What does?" Jaskier asked. "Tell me, how can I help you?"

An agonised scream escaped their lips. "My heart," they sobbed. Thunder roared again. A deep crack appeared on the grey, stony surface of their chest. "It's breaking again." The stone splintered further. The light filtering through the rifts was almost blinding. Not angry lightning, but soft, soothing sunlight.

"No," he said softly. "You're starting to feel again."

"I'm hurting!" they disagreed, their voice almost drowned out by the thunder of another crack appearing. "Don't you see? How can that be better than feeling nothing at all?"

"It will get better," Jaskier promised because there was nothing else, he could think of to say. "It hurts, but it will get better." And then, because apparently, he had lost his sanity somewhere in the netherworld, he surged forward and pulled them into a tight hug.

Thunder roared and the first wave of pain punched the air from his lungs. "Great gods," he wheezed. The trials had been barely a pinch in comparison. Still, he refused to let go.

"What are you doing?" they sobbed, uselessly shoving at his shoulders. "I'm hurting you." As if that would get him to let go. He was as stupid as a turd and as stubborn as a mule with no sense of self-preservation, after all. And he knew exactly how they felt. The emptiness. The numbness. The nothing. And the heartbreak, the agony when the stone encasing your heart finally crumbled away.

"I know," he said, pigheadedly holding them even tighter. "But alone you're hurting even more." He squeezed them and heard the stone crack again. "It will be over soon. It will be better."

Thunder roared. Lightning flared. They both cried and sobbed in unison.

He blinked.

The storm died and the wall of darkness around them dropped. Above the sun had reached its zenith, the sickly orange washed away.

He blinked. 

He was lying on the ground, his sweat-soaked hair plastered against his forehead and breathing heavily. When he stretched out his hand, he could feel the deity's next to his. "You did it," he whispered and grasped their fingers. Their touch was pleasant and warm, like a ray of sunshine after a cold spring day.

"No," they answered. "You did." They fought themself to their feet.

Jaskier's breath hitched. They were even more beautiful than before. Their body was still engulfed in swirling mist and snow, their skin still the same tan colour. But instead of darkness shrouding them, they were glowing now. Not with violently flashing lightning, but a soft reddish glow. 'Like the sky eternally stuck in sunset.' Their long hair floated behind them as if they were surrounded by water instead of air. And in their chest where the grey expanse of stone had been, was now a swirling sphere of golden light. They tilted their head to the side, their eyes sparkling kindly.

"Jaskier!" his attention was diverted by Geralt looming over him with a worried look on his face. "Are you alright? Talk to me, Jaskier, what happened."

"I'm fine," he croaked and let him pull him to his feet, leaning heavily on him, "I think."

"You are free to go," the deity answered in his stead, "if you wish so."

Geralt's grasp on his waist tightened at that. "I am?" Jaskier asked, confused. "But I lost."

"No, you paid the cost," they insisted and bowed their head. "With your song you freed me from my throne. A song to melt a heart of stone."

"I did? I didn't know."

"And maybe it's better so. Go now, both of you. Wake up, but be careful as you do. You are safe within this world, but on the journey back you're on your own. You'll have to find your way alone. Do not get lost."

Jaskier pried Geralt's arm away, to manage a deep bow. "Thank you," he said, earnestly grateful, "for your advice. And for keeping your word."

They smiled. "I might be a dreamer, coward, and a fool, but I am not a liar, too. Enjoy your freedom."

"We will," he promised and turned to Geralt. "Come on, love. It's time. Let's go home."

Geralt frowned darkly. "How do we do that?"

Jaskier chuckled. "Of course, you wouldn't understand," he mumbled with fond adoration. Geralt opened his mouth to say something, but Jaskier was faster: "It's easy," he promised. "As easy as breathing." He put his hand over Geralt's eyes. "Close your eyes," he instructed him. "Take a deep breath. Just like you taught me." He waited until his witcher's breathing evened out. "Good. And now, love, imagine waking up."

Geralt heaved another breath. Jaskier kissed him on the lips. "I'll be with you in just a moment," he promised.

He blinked.

“Jaskier,” the deity said softly. Geralt was gone and Jaskier found himself alone in an empty garden with a deity. He turned around to them. 

“He’s gone,” he whispered, relieved. 

“He is. You showed him how.” 

He gnawed on his lip, nervously. "Could Geralt have left at any time? Is this a prison of his design?"

They hummed thoughtfully, contemplating that question. "It is and it's not. He owed me, after all. But after paying his price, yes, he could have left." They sighed. "But," the deity continued, "he couldn't have."

"He could have never imagined," Jaskier whispered.

"No," the Deity said softly, then scrunched up their nose. "Are you certain it's him you want? You can do so much better than that."

"No," Jaskier answered with a dreamy smile. "I can't imagine that."

"Such words from you. I wouldn't have thought it possible." They smiled. "I have a question for you, too, flower, one answer that finally is due. Say it, friend, do not be shy, so this chapter finally can end. Tell me, who am I?"

He thought for a short while before answering: "I thought you were the patron of dreams, but here nothing is quite like it seems. Who you are, you want to know? You are who you create yourself to be. Just like I. Fate's around our necks like a noose, but what matters in the end is what we choose. I am not who I have been, nor am I who still will come. Reality will bow to your whim, and to mine, until I am gone. We are who we create, deity or not, we share the same fate."

"So, you do understand," they said, a satisfied smile spreading on their face. "From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were divine as well."

"I am," Jaskier agreed, understanding. "You are not alone."

"Neither are you. There is a witcher waiting for you."

He smiled. "And I will go to him in just a moment," he promised, "but… What about you? What will happen when I’m gone?”

"You go back to your life," they answered with a sad smile, "I go back to mine. It will be fine."

"It won't." He frowned. "You will be lonely again."

"If that's Fate's will, so be it then."

He huffed. "I did not just bear the brunt of your pain only for it to happen all over again. What will you do when I'm not around anymore? What will you do when you turn to stone again?"

They laughed weakly and shook their head. "Your concern is cute, but uncalled for. Not even a god lives long enough to turn to stone twice in their life."

"Not even a god?" he frowned. "Can it happen to mortals, too?"

"Worry not, my flower dear," they replied. "You're not in danger here. Humans might grow still, but they die before they petrify. As will I, once the loneliness returns."

“In that case, friend, I have one last offer to present. A priest you want, you say?" He bowed with a flourish. "It would be my highest honour to take on that duty for you. I might not pray or know how to raise a temple But I can make people believe in you. I can make people imagine."

"That you can," they agreed. "The honour would be mine, priest." They held up their hand. "Before you go. Might you show me what you've created?"

"Of course. Come and look your fill."

He blinked.

There was a wooden door hovering in the air over the wintery garden. He turned the doorknob and stepped aside to let the deity peer through, but not before sneaking a glance as well.

The lake was still there, and it was still winter, too. But instead of the playing children there was a cottage on the shore, with a bench overlooking the scenery. On it sat an elderly couple, leaning against each other and smiling.

They smiled. "It's beautiful."

"Thank you. If you want it, it belongs to you. Talking flowers, birds, and all."

They giggled. It sounded strange out of their mouth, strange and familiar at once. "I should have known I'd find that in your world. I look forward to visiting."

"And I look forward to returning," Jaskier answered. "Invite us again once our days on earth are done. We will come."

"Once the day of both your deaths arrives, I will. But ‘till then I’ll stand guard, so that none without the other parts. So now: farewell."

He was hesitant almost when he said: "I shall be taking my leave."

"You shall. Good riddance, priest."

Jaskier stood and turned. "It was an honour meeting you," he said and bowed deeply. "Farewell, Nehaleni."

The deity looked almost surprised for a moment, but Jaskier was already imagining.

He blinked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I make it better (after making it worse)? I hope so.  
> I plucked the name of Nehaleni out of the witcher wiki, knowing next to nothing about them/her, just as Coram Agh Tera. Since there's so little information on there, in my fic Nehaleni became the nonbinary deity of dreams, creativity, and creation. I hope you enjoyed them, because I sure did.  
> As always, leave a comment and a kudo or come over to chat with me on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if you liked it!


	7. Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wakes up from his stay in Nehaleni's dreamworld. But Jaskier is still asleep, and it's not looking good for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think we're done with the angst? Sorry to disappoint, there's still one last chapter left. So, without further ado, read away!

Waking up is one of the strangest experiences, mortals undergo on a daily basis. It can be peaceful, like untangling yourself from a lover's embrace to go relieve yourself, only to know that you will come back to that welcoming warmth once more. It can be violent, like a bucket of cold water on a morning after a bender. It also can be very disorienting, especially if you find yourself in a place where you decidedly did not fall asleep in.

Some of them wake slowly, their mind still wrapped in the sluggish fog of my dreamworld of creation and creativity. Others fight to escape the misty tendrils of a nightmarish prison of their own design. And others still are able to wake in the span of a heartbeat, one blink submerged in the very heart of my garden and the next far beyond my reach.

Witchers, generally, belong to the latter sort of people. It is a shame; they rarely are able to indulge in the pleasures of my realm for long. Waking to a monster with steely claws looming over you or a beast ready to tear out your throat will teach you to sleep too deeply. And even if they are able to enter into my domain, their lives of hardships often make it impossible for them to even imagine anything but a waking nightmare.

So, it should be no wonder that Geralt of Rivia woke with a gasp, already half on his feet before he even knew what was happening. The witcher stumbled, his legs giving out beneath him and collapsed on the floor.

He blinked. His vision was still foggy with the sleep. He blinked again. And again, and again, and again, until he could see the room he was in clearly. 'Room?' Geralt groaned and pushed himself up to his elbows. "What the fuck?" he meant to mumble, but his throat was too dry to form words.

The door burst open. 'Shit.' He tried to scramble to his feet, panic flaring up in him. He was dressed in nothing but breeches and a shirt, different ones than what he had worn when he had gone into the ruin. His armour, his swords nowhere to be seen— Whoever had come to look for the intruder in their home would surely have having and easy job finishing off the witcher—

"Geralt!" Yennefer of Vengerberg exclaimed and fell to her knees next to him. Her hands hovered above his body as if she didn't dare to touch him. As if he were an illusion that might shatter any minute. "You're... _awake_?"

"Yen?" he groaned weakly, not quite believing his eyes either. What was she doing here? She should be far away in whatever estate she was currently occupying while he was supposed to be on a scouting mission in a haunted ruin. He glanced around warily. Wherever he was staying, it was definitely not a ruin. More like the mansion of some minor noble.

"Yes, it's me, you big dumb oaf," she scoffed and interrupted his wondering. She tugged at his too-heavy arm until he complied and she could pull one of them over her shoulders. "Triss!" she called as she tried to get him into a standing position. His legs stubbornly remained uncooperative. "Triss, come over here, he's awake!"

It took his brain a while to catch up with her words, his mind still much preoccupied to move even one single muscle in his body. "Triss?" he croaked. This was starting to make less and less sense. And it hadn't made a lot of sense in the first place.

"She's looking over Jaskier," she snapped as if that was an appropriate answer.

"Jaskier." He frowned as he was made to sit down on the bed he had stumbled out of earlier. Jaskier. He remembered— In the ruins, he remembered the fog. The nightmare. The blood, the guilt. And the loneliness, the desperate feeling of missing someone. He remembered yelling— " _Jaskier_ ," he gasped. He remembered the deity, remembered the deal—" _Butcher, I need a priest. You need to offer a replacement at least. Come with me and I let your loved ones be. Or stay and let them pay._ "—the garden, robes, shackles. He remembered a door, and— "Jaskier."

He clung to Yennefer, desperately, hoping she would understand. She passed a hand over his hair. "Breathe," she ordered him and pushed a waterskin into his hands. He drank gratefully. "And drink something. Your bard is—" She hesitated with a frown, evidently weighing her next works. "He's asleep next door."

"What happened?" he grunted, once his throat didn't feel like sandpaper anymore.

"He brought you here," she explained calmly, handing him a cup with an atrocious smelling concoction. When he raised his eyebrows in question she answered: "Yeah, I don't know how he managed either— oh that? Drink that, it will give you back some of your strength—he brought you here, begging me to save you. I told him I'd do some research—"

"—and came to Aretuza, where she found me," Triss Merigold chimed in from where she stood in the doorway. "Welcome back to the world of the living, Geralt."

He frowned. Aretuza? Yennefer avoided that place like the plague. If she truly had gone there, it had to have been bad. "Triss," she chided, evidently surprised.

"Don't worry, he's stable." The words 'For the moment' hang unspoken in the air between them. "Did you know that your bard is absolutely insane?" He nodded. "He demanded that we send him after you and threatened to find a ruffian to knock him unconscious if we didn't."

Geralt grimaced. Yeah, that sounded like Jaskier. He drained the last of the revolting brew and thrust it back into Yennefer's hands. "How long?" They exchanged a silent glance. Geralt growled. "How long?" he asked again.

"Almost two months," Triss admitted finally.

Two months. The little colour he had regained drained from his face again. Two months of sleeping. Two months without moving a single muscle. Two months without food and drink except for what the sorceresses could administer with their magic. 'Too long.' That was too long, far too long for any human. Panic started rising within him as he thought of all that could happen in that time. "Where is he?"

"Geralt, lie back down," Yennefer tried to soothe him and manoeuvre him back into a lying position.

"No," he insisted weakly, and tried to push her away, a futile attempt in his weakened state. "No, no, Yen. Yennefer, where is he? Please, I need to— Please!"

"You need to rest, is what you do."

"You lost a lot of strength in that time while you were asleep," Triss agreed, but he barely listened to them.

His mind was aflutter with all the memories of his stay in the deity's realm coming back to him; the lonely eras of him kneeling at their feet with nothing to do, nothing to talk about, Jaskier appearing, the Game of Fools, the poems, the shackles closing around Jaskier instead. Their last song, their kiss, their goodbye. The storm raging with Jaskier at the centre, hidden from view but clear to see, energy swirling around him, within him, dying out. Their freedom. A kiss. " _I'll be with you in just a moment._ "

"Stable?" he echoed.

"Yes," Triss agreed. "He has been so for a few days."

"I need to see him," he blurted.

"Geralt," Yen said very softly, but he was having none of that.

"No, I need to see him." He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared at her intently. "I need to see him," he insisted again. "Please. Please, Yen, help me."

"Geralt," she said again, more worried this time. He looked at her, pleading, desperate. "Alright," she whispered and hoisted his arm over her shoulder again.

"Yenna," Triss chided, but she was shut up with an angry violet stare.

"Come over here and be useful. He wants to see him? Fine. He'll see him."

With combined forces they managed to haul him over to the room next door. They almost didn't make it over to the chair next to the bed, for Geralt's legs gave out beneath him from relief when he saw Jaskier lying there. The bard was thinner than he remembered, his cheeks sunken in, and his skin a sickly grey he almost didn't notice with the glowing sphere of light surrounding him.

He looked peaceful, almost, he mused, once he collapsed at his bedside, waiting. Peaceful and stable. But the longer he waited, the more worried glances the two sorceresses exchanged, the more time passed without his... friend? Lover? Bard. The more time passed without his bard stirring, the less he looked asleep. The more he looked like a corpse.

"What— Why— Why is he not waking up?" he stammered after what felt like an eternity.

"It's the spell we put him under, so he could go after you," Triss explained as Yennefer put a hand on his shoulder and asked: "What happened Geralt?"

"He won. They said that we could go, he won, he wrote a song to melt a heart of stone!" He looked up at both of them, uncontrolled, unbridled fear clouding his mind. "He should wake up, he won- Why is he not waking up? Triss! Yennefer!"

Again, the anxious glances. "Lift it," Yennefer said quietly.

"Yenna—"

"No, Triss, you have to try again. You have to lift it."

"Again?" Geralt asked with a wavering voice as Triss got to work, chanting quietly in Elder. "What do you mean, _again_? Yennefer, answer me!"

"Calm down, Geralt," she ordered him sharply and he snapped his mouth shut. He could do that. "It's— Fuck," she cursed and looked away. "I need you to not freak out. Alright? Do not freak out, Geralt."

He probably couldn't do that. Still, he nodded.

"We had agreed with him," she started slowly, "to leave him in the netherworld for one month. For safety reasons. So, after that had passed, we tried to guide him back. And— we couldn't. It was like he was fighting back. And then, he slipped further under. With each day, more of his soul got sucked further and further into the netherworld."

"What?" he whispered quietly. "But he found me. He won. He should be waking up now."

"We're not sure if he can. We can lift the spell, but... there is so little of him left in this world, he might not be able to find his way back here."

"But he won," he said again, stupidly. "We were free to go. He— He said he'd be with me in just a minute." Despite his better knowledge he reached out, to grasp his hand at least. He hissed when the sphere burned his fingers.

Uncharacteristically, Yennefer didn't even chide him for it, her attention diverted by Triss' disturbingly calm: "Yenna." Geralt was left to stare helplessly at his bard's lifeless body as the two sorceresses argued quietly.

After just the blink of an eye, Yennefer turned back to him and said: "Geralt."

Suddenly, he knew with terrifying clarity what she was about to say next. "He's not finding his way back," he said with a surprisingly steady voice. "He's dying."

"He's dying, Geralt," she agreed meekly.

He nodded. He could already feel the tears rising again in his eyes, just like they had done in the netherworld. Only this time there was no soft song of Jaskier to call them forth. Instead, the room was as silent as a grave. "Drop the sphere," he ordered.

"Geralt—" Triss tried, but he shook his head.

"If he's dying anyways, I can at least hold him while he does," he decreed. "Please. Drop the sphere. And leave us alone. I'll— I'll shout, once it's over."

He didn't even register them dropping the spell and leaving. He just blinked and found himself alone with a barely breathing Jaskier in the room. In any other situation it might have worried him. It should have worried him. But not now.

Not now, because Jaskier was dying, and there was nothing he could do.

Geralt swallowed his tears and, with an incredible feat of strength he crawled onto the bed. Wheezing, he leaned against the headboard to regain his breath. Then, he heaved Jaskier into his lap, to cradle him gently.

For a while, he just sat like that. Holding the fragile body of his bard, rocking softly back and forth while he listened intently to his breathing. Jaskier breathed in. And out. In. And out. 'I should say something,' he knew. But what did one say to a dying person who couldn't even hear you?

"I— I'm sorry," he stammered after a while, the first thing that came to his mind. Jaskier breathed out. And in. "I'm sorry it has to end like this. I'm sorry for going into that ruin, I'm sorry for being so stubborn, I'm sorry for never telling you how I feel."

Jaskier breathed in. And out. It was like those words broke a damn, for suddenly Geralt couldn't stop speaking anymore: "It was stupid, I know. But I was scared. Scared of losing you. Somehow, I thought losing you when you didn't know would be easier."

Jaskier breathed out. And in. "Hm." He carded his fingers through Jaskier's soft hair. "Stupid. Hurts just as fucking much."

Jaskier breathed in. And out. "I'm really fucking angry with you right now, y'know, Jaskier? I wanted to hear that song. I wanted to kiss you. For real. Just once."

Jaskier breathed out. And in. "Y'know— hm." This was somehow even harder than he'd thought. "Y'know, you were the last thing I thought about before I fell asleep. And the first thing I worried about when I woke up in the garden. When they offered me their terms, I— it's stupid, but at first, I didn't even think that they might ask for Yennefer's soul instead. Or Ciri's. All I thought was that I can't let 'em have you. 'S why I stayed."

Jaskier breathed in. And out. "I love you," he whispered and took his hand gently. "I know you probably can't hear me, but if you can, please— Please, Jaskier, come back to me. I'm waiting for you. I'll always wait for you."

Jaskier breathed out. Geralt waited. And waited. And waited. He didn't breathe in again.

"Fuck," Geralt whimpered, curling himself around his bard's lifeless—dead—body. He might have been ashamed of the violent sobs that shook his body, of tears that flowed freely. But all of that mattered so little. Not when he— Not when— When—

"Oh," a croaky voice said and Geralt froze, "tha's nice."

"Jaskier," he whispered against his bard's shoulder, not daring to look up. What if he had misheard? What if Jaskier was not actually awake? What if it was a ghost, what if Geralt had to fight him—

"'S my name, love," Jaskier slurred and sighed. "Always thought it'd be nice t'die in your arms."

He couldn't help it. He had to pull back and look. He had to confront the horrors that inevitably waited for him when he looked into his bard's face, he had to see— Blue eyes. Very tired blue eyes. Very tired, alive blue eyes. "You're not dead."

"No? Oh." He blinked sluggishly. "Dyin'?"

"Yen!" Geralt shouted, because he didn't know what else to do. "Triss, Yen, he's awake!"

The two sorceresses barrelled into the room immediately, betraying that they had been eavesdropping. Geralt was hauled off the bed by Yennefer, as Triss rushed over to Jaskier, weaving spells and fishing for potions in her bag. "Wha's happenin'?" Jaskier managed before he was shut up by some vile concoction being poured down his throat.

"You nearly died, you idiot, that's what's happening," Triss hissed as she supported his head while he struggled to swallow the brew. "Reduced your witcher to a useless, blubbering mess."

She wasn't wrong. Geralt still couldn't stop rambling: "He just woke up, Yen, I don't know— I don't understand— He was dead, and suddenly he was talking. Will he be alright? Please, will he be alright now?"

"Shut up," both women snapped at him and Jaskier.

"Yen, I need to—" he tried again and was promptly shoved back into the chair.

"If you don't sit down and shut your mouth, I swear to the gods, Geralt of Rivia, I'll kick you out of this room, whether you can walk or not," Yennefer spat and joined Triss in the check-ups she was running.

It was probably the hardest thing he had ever done in his entire life. Normally, he had no issue with keeping his mouth shut, but this time it felt like torture. His fingers itched, his whole body thrummed with the insistent need to do something, anything. Was this how Jaskier felt all the time? Geralt felt like he was losing his mind.

Yennefer held Jaskier upright as Triss stripped him of his shirt to check for... _something_. Geralt's stomach churned with each strip of sickly grey skin revealed, stretched far too thin over Jaskier's rips. 'Maybe I should wait outside,' he thought. But he couldn't. Not watching, not _knowing_ seemed somehow even worse.

His thoughts were interrupted by Jaskier's hand searching blindly on the soft sheets. "Please," he croaked, "take my hand, love."

And how could he deny such a request? Geralt leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the bed to clasp his hand tightly with both of his. The angle was a bit awkward, maybe, but that didn't deter him. He was glad to be able to do anything at all. And if he helped Jaskier with that, even better.

He couldn't say how much time passed before Yennefer and Triss backed up, grim masks hiding their relief. Not very well, of course, but still. "You'll be alright," Triss decreed. "A few days of rest and proper food, and taking it slowly for the next few months and you should be as good as new."

Jaskier nodded and smiled. "Thank you."

"Still, you're an idiot. I tried to wake you up, twice. And you didn't come back either of those times. You fought me, you bastard."

"I'm sorry. I needed my strength there." The smile on his face grew sheepish. "But I'm back now, aren't I? We both are."

She scoffed and crossed her arms. "You owe me, bard."

"I know. And I'll gladly repay you at any time."

"No," she pointed a finger at him, "not at any time. First, you rest. Come, Yenna." They were already out the door when Triss poked her head back in. "Before I forget it: there's a strict no-sex-policy while you're resting."

Jaskier scoffed and Geralt made a vague gesture at both of them, exhausted from the little they'd done in the past hour. "I doubt that's even an option."

"For now," Jaskier added and Triss wrinkled her nose.

"Yeah, it's the 'for now' I'm worried about. No sex!" she ordered again before she was pulled out of the room by Yennefer and the door shut behind them.

With them gone, the room was plunged into silence. Geralt knew that he should say something, but there was nothing he could think of. As so often. Instead, he just sat there, still holding on tight to Jaskier's hand as if he might vanish if he stopped touching him. And staring. How could he not? Whatever magic the two sorceresses had worked, had regained Jaskier some semblance of strength at least, his skin not quite as sickly pale as before. But it was his eyes that kept attracting Geralt’s gaze. There was something… weird about them. An unearthly glow, interrupted by little bursts of lightning flashing through the clear blue. He couldn’t bear to look. He couldn’t bear to look away. 

Luckily, with Jaskier silence never lasted long. "Hey there," he whispered and stroked Geralt's knuckles with his thumb. He still looked very tired, but the smile at least was reassuring. "You look like shit."

Geralt snorted. "You've seen better days yourself, bard."

"Rude," the bard decided and pouted, closing his eyes again.

"You started it."

He chuckled and squeezed his hand weakly. "Shouldn't you be nicer to me? Y'know after all of—" He waved his hand around vaguely.

"What? 'Cause you're my lover?" He groaned quietly as he got to his feet again. "Can I?"

Jaskier's eyes snapped open again and nodded. "Is... that what I am?" he asked hesitantly, shuffling to the side to make room for Geralt on the bed. "Your lover?"

"Hm," he answered and flopped down, exhausted. "You're my bard,” he said finally, once he was settled. “And you're an idiot."

"Yeah?" Jaskier scoffed. "Well, whose idea was it to investigate a spooky ruin? Certainly not mine, I tell you that mu—mphh!" Geralt shut him up with a kiss.

"You're an idiot," he said again once they separated. "And I love you."

Jaskier's expression softened and cuddled close, arranging Geralt's limbs to hold him. "I love you, too, you fool."

"Good," he sighed with relief. Immediately, his expression hardened again: "So, stop being an idiot!" He pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I can't lose you now. Fuck." He draped his arm over his eyes. "Fuck, Jaskier, I thought I was losing my mind. You stopped breathing in my arms."

"Romantic, isn't it?" the bard grinned up at him. Geralt growled and Jaskier winced. "Too soon? Yeah, I get that."

"Yennefer told me you found me and brought me here. I— I can't even imagine how you... How could you bear that?"

He chuckled. "I don't remember, if I'm quite honest. One moment I found you lying there, the next I was knocking on Yennefer's door. And then suddenly I woke up in the netherworld."

"Hm. Was it—" He hesitated, remembering what it had been like for him. The fog, the corpses, the guilt. "Was it bad?"

"Bad?" Jaskier grimaced. "It was a fucking pain in the arse, that's what it was. So many riddles. So weird."

"Weird?" Geralt looked down at him suspiciously. He supposed that was one way to put it.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Pink grass, purple trees, green snow. A whole bunch of talking flowers and birds. Just weird."

"Hm." That didn't sound anything like what he had seen.

Jaskier huddled closer. "The nightmares were worse," he confessed. But before Geralt had a chance to ask about them: "But let's not talk about that now. The important thing is that we are together." He yawned. "And that we'll stay together."

"Hmm." He pressed his nose into Jaskier's hair and inhaled deeply as his bard's breathing evened out. There were still so many questions he had. Like why Jaskier had stayed longer. What had happened during the storm. What the name of the deity was. But they could wait until they had slept. "Sweet dreams," he mumbled. "I'll be there when you wake up."

Jaskier's lips quirked upwards. "I'll be there when you fall asleep."

Geralt hummed, not quite understanding what he meant. But it didn’t really matter either, he decided and let his eyes droop closed again.

It was a serene and starry night when the witcher fell asleep with his bards in his arms. As it should be, by any rights; a night as beautiful as you can imagine for a picturesque pair of young lovers. They dreamt as well; a dream of pink grass and green snow, a garden with an old friend and a sky that was eternally stuck in sunset no more. It was a peaceful dream. A dream of freedom, found fortune, and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're done! Let me tell you, guys, this was a journey. I also think this was the first time that I wrote a mulit-chapter and brought it to an actual end (without a sequel planned), so yay for me! I hope I have brought this to a satisfying conclusion.  
> Thank you all for reading, if you got this far, and thank all of those especially who left kudos and comments, you guys give me life!  
> As always, leave a comment and a kudo or come over to chat with me on [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/) if you liked it!


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